Scenes From an Italian Restaurant
by not-affiliated-with-homestuck
Summary: Local police officer Arthur goes undercover to investigate a cheerful but evasive gang member. But Alfred Jones may be in over his head. Lightly implied USUK.
1. Chapter 1

Despite the glow of the white crosswalk man, Arthur Kirkland took a moment to briefly glance sideways before crossing 37th West, keeping a wary eye out for rogue taxies and airheaded cyclists. The streets were busy with tourists and businesspeople returning to work from their breaks – Arthur could time the city's traffic flow like clockwork. Most people had finished lunch by two-thirty, which marked the start of Arthur's own scheduled break time – he preferred to eat later, when the lunch rush had slowed and the restaurants were empty. He would prefer, if he were being honest, to eat lunch at his desk, but he'd long since realized it was nearly impossible to do anything in the office except work. For the most part, he enjoyed his job, but he considered forty-five minutes of personal time worth the effort of dodging bicycles and weaving between pedestrians.

He spotted his destination as he turned the corner onto 38th West Street, just short of halfway down the block – the Rosso Pomodoro, a tiny Italian diner tucked away between a dance studio and some sort of fabric store. With its handful of bent chairs and white-cloth tables, it wasn't the most impressive eatery in Manhattan, but that was precisely what Arthur liked about it – the diner attracted mainly locals between the lunch and dinner rush hours, and there were rarely more than a handful of customers in the restaurant anytime Arthur visited.

Keeping carefully to the right to avoid the flood of tourists on the opposite half of the sidewalk, Arthur's expectations were confirmed – there were only three customers outside the restaurant; a dark-haired couple sharing glasses of wine and a single bowl of pasta, and a young blonde man wearing glasses and a bomber jacket sitting alone, perusing a menu. The enamored couple appeared too engrossed with one another to take notice of their surroundings, but the blonde man appeared rather bored, looking up frequently from the menu to watch passersby. He caught Arthur's eye as he skimmed the faces of the tourists and winked; Arthur turned faintly pink and looked away.

As Arthur neared the restaurant, however, a fourth person came storming out of the front doors – Arthur recognized him as one of the two brothers who owned the restaurant. Arthur had only spoken to him a handful of times, preferring to make light conversation with the other, friendlier brother, who was much more cheerful, albeit prone to rambling. The angry Italian waiter approached the blonde man with the menu and began shouting at him, drawing the stares of several bystanders.

" _Ciao_ , hey! You! Are you gonna order anything this time, or are you going to get the fuck out of my chair?"

The blonde man looked casually alarmed. "Hey, Lovino, take it easy, give me a couple more minutes!"

"No!" Lovino barked, grabbing for the menu, which the blonde man quickly pulled out of reach. "You come in here, what, three times this week? All you do is sit here, waste my time, distract Feliciano, take up space! _Vattene_! Get yourself off!"

The man smiled weakly, looking torn between fear and amusement. "Right here? In the restaurant?"

Lovino's face turned, if possible, even redder. Arthur noticed that a couple of tourists had stopped completely to watch the scene, and one teenage boy in a hooded sweatshirt had pulled out his phone.

"Off! Off my chair! _Vaffanculo!_ Pay or leave, Jones!" Lovino had managed to grab hold of the menu and was now attempting to pull it out of the blonde man's grasp, who was now positively on the edge of laughter.

"Hold on, give me some time, I'm waiting for-"

The man called Jones suddenly locked eyes with Arthur again, who had reached the entrance of the Rosso Pomodoro and was watching the argument with interest.

" _There_ you are, where have you been, I've been waiting here for _ages_ , dude!" Alfred had relinquished his hold on the menu and ducked under Lovino's outstretched hands, taking two long strides in Arthur's direction and catching him by the arm. "Come on, the waiter brought some menus, it's no big deal…"

"I…pardon…?" Arthur sputtered indignantly, but Jones was already leading Arthur towards the table. He reached out and smoothly lifted the menu out of Lovino's hands; Arthur took it from him, disoriented. "We'll start with two waters, if that's alright. _Grazie_!" He pronounced the last word with an atrocious faux Italian accent, failing to stress the 'e' as a separate syllable.

Lovino opened his mouth once, closed it, and shot Arthur a murderous glare. Arthur glanced sideways at the strange man, who had repositioned himself in his wire chair and was now whistling innocently, and gave Lovino a defeated shrug. Lovino huffed, turned, and left, leaving Arthur sitting alone with the stranger in the bomber jacket.

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," said Arthur, shifting his chair so that he was facing the blonde man. "I don't believe we've met before."

"Oh, you're English! That's neat. I guess you're right; I'll start, then! I'm Alfred, Alfred Jones," said the man, extending his hand across the table, but Arthur did not take it. Alfred left his hand in the air for a moment before apparently concluding that Arthur had no intention of mirroring him; there was an awkward pause before he continued, "and you are?"

"Arthur." He pushed his chair back with a squeak and put his hands on the table, preparing to stand. "Well, it was nice meeting you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to be going-"

"Wait!" protested Alfred, standing up quickly and intercepting Arthur on his way to the street. "Aw, come on, please! If you leave, that mean Italian guy's just going to come back and yell and me again."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be loitering, then," Arthur pointed out. Alfred looked slightly embarrassed; he removed his glasses from his face and began cleaning them vigorously, not quite meeting Arthur's eye.

"Ah, don't be like that, Arthur," he said, frowning. He held the glasses up to the light to inspect them. "Hey, look, you don't even have to talk to me! It'll be like I'm not even there. Just until your friend gets here or whatever. Please?"

"I'm not meeting anyone here," Arthur grumbled. "I'm here on my break."

"On your break?" asked Alfred excitedly, putting his glasses back on and meeting Arthur's eye again. "That's perfect, then! You'd be sitting alone anyway, what's the difference?"

Arthur opened his mouth to explain what exactly the difference was, but before he could say a word, Feliciano, Lovino's redheaded twin brother, appeared, holding a piece of paper and a pencil.

"Bevenuti! Ciao! Can I help you?" Feliciano lifted the pencil expectantly, before recognizing Arthur. "Arthur! _Come stai_ , how are you? I haven't seen you for a while, where have you been, hmm?"

"At work," said Arthur, sitting back in the chair in defeat. He picked up the menu again and perused it while Feliciano turned to Alfred. "Ahh, who's this then? A friend of yours? I believe I've seen him around!"

Arthur snorted derisively behind the menu, while Alfred beamed. "We just met today, actually.

"Ah! _Nuovi amici_! Wonderful, I remember you, we've spoken before, correct? What is your name again?"

"Alfred," said Arthur, behind his menu, before Alfred could reply. "Alfred Jones, isn't that right?"

"Good, good! _Allora_ , would you like anything?

 _An empty table_ , thought Arthur, but when he looked up over his menu, he saw Alfred watching at him hopefully, and he sighed and ordered a basket of breadsticks instead.

After Feliciano had left, Arthur picked up the menu again and checked the specials section. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alfred looking at him from across the table. Rolling his eyes, he lowered the menu. "Aren't you going to order anything, then?"

"Oh, no", said Alfred, cheerfully. "I don't actually have any money. I'm just here for the atmosphere."

Arthur rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the menu again, grumbling to himself. There was silence for a couple of minutes –

"So how do you know the waiter so well? Are you two friends? Do you come here a lot?"

"I thought you said we could sit here in silence," said Arthur pointedly, without looking up this time.

"I said _you_ could sit here in silence," Alfred protested. "but I'm probably still going to ask you stuff, even if you don't answer me."

Arthur considered taking him up on the offer, but the thought of attempting to ignore the cheerful American during his only break of the day seemed almost worse than just biting the bullet and making conversation. "I come here every few days for lunch."

"Why's that?"

"Because the food is inexpensive," replied Arthur, nonchalantly turning a page in the menu. "And I appreciate a European restaurant owned by actual Europeans." He vividly recalled his first night out at an 'authentic English bar', where it had quickly become apparent that the Union Jack hung ostentatiously in the window was a beacon for every 21-year-old American college girl with a freshly minted photo ID.

"That's it?" Alfred leaned back in his chair, blowing a wayward lock of blonde hair out of his eyes. "That's pretty boring."

"Were you expecting something in particular?" asked Arthur sardonically.

"I don't know," mused Alfred. "I always think English people have really exciting lives."

"Ah, you've discovered my true purpose. I'm actually here on behalf of the MIA, scouting only the best Italian restaurants the city can offer. 007, at your service."

Alfred laughed. "Funny, too! I like you. Are you always this sarcastic?"

"Only on weekdays." Arthur closed the menu and leaned sideways in the chair, waving at Feliciano through the window, who was taking the order of a young Indian woman and her two children inside. Feliciano waved back and held up two fingers.

"Well, I could have picked a worse lunch date, I guess. Can I have some of your breadsticks?"

"Help yourself," said Arthur dryly, as Feliciano returned to the table, holding a basket of bread and some olive oil, which immediately diverted Alfred's attention. He began taking bites of breadstick at an almost alarming rate. Arthur turned to address Feliciano, who winked and mouthed " _carino."_ Arthur gritted his teeth and pointedly looked away.

After Feliciano had left, Arthur snuck a look at his watch. He only had twenty minutes left to eat and pay. Alfred's intrusion probably hadn't lost him much time, but he felt as though he'd wasted a lot of his break nonetheless. Alfred was now halfway through his third breadstick; Arthur reached carefully into the basket and pried one away for himself. Alfred grinned again.

"These breadsticks are really good. I wonder where they get them?"

"I'm sure they make everything here in the restaurant. They've very accomplished chefs." Alfred reached across the table to dip the bread in the olive oil, apparently deep in thought. Arthur suddenly caught sight of some strange marks on Alfred's left forearm, which had become visible when the sleeve of his jacket had slid up. Alfred noticed his line of sight and hastily pushed the sleeve back into place. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"So what is it you do, exactly, Alfred?" he asked. "Not many people have lunch so late in the day."

"Well," said Alfred, dipping the same, half-chewed breadstick in the oil again. Arthur noticed that the tips of his fingers seemed slightly burnt. His lip curled as he carefully pushed the bowl of oil away, deciding to take the rest of his breadsticks dry. "I wasn't really having lunch, technically. What do you do for a living? Why are _you_ having lunch so late?"

"I asked you first," said Arthur. Alfred frowned.

"Aw, don't be like that, Artie," he said, taking his glasses off and cleaning them again. Arthur wondered if it was a nervous habit. He pursed his lips and waited for Alfred to speak again; after a few moments, Alfred took the hint. "All right, fine, I'm not working at the moment. Geez, you're tough."

"Why not? Are you in college?" Arthur pressed.

"Not…I mean, I was," said Alfred, sighing. "It's kind of a long story."

"Another time, then," said Arthur, glancing at his watch. He would probably have to take his dish back to work with him. How had he lost so much of his break? He hadn't spent that long talking to Alfred, had he? Perhaps ordering the breadsticks had slowed him down; he had never bothered to order an appetizer before.

The breadsticks he'd only eaten one of, he thought, ruefully. Alfred had eaten most of the basket singlehandedly. He was awfully hungry for somebody killing time at a restaurant. What a freeloader.

"'Another time'?" Alfred quoted, raising an eyebrow. Arthur realized the implication of his response too late. "Does this mean you're gonna buy me more breadsticks?"

Arthur groaned; Alfred laughed. "Maybe even a pizza?" he added hopefully

Feliciano returned to the table; Arthur's respect for the man rose considerably when he noticed that his meal had been accompanied with a plastic container and the bill. He slipped a gratuitous tip into the folder and stood; Alfred looked surprised.

"Leaving already?

"Yes, unfortunately, my allotted time for talking with strange tourists in Italian diners has expired. My schedule is quite full, I'm afraid."

Alfred gave an exaggerated gasp and placed his hand on his chest dramatically. "But Arthur, I'm a native New Yorker! Can't you tell?"

"You're not serious," said Arthur, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and tipping his pasta into the container.

"Born and raised," said Alfred proudly, reaching over with his fork and spearing a meatball from Arthur's box. "I live with some friends close by."

"You have friends?"

"Ha, ha. Where does this sarcasm of yours go on weekends?"

"Sometimes it goes out for drinks with friends," replied Arthur, scraping the last of the pasta into the box and checking his watch again.

Alfred laughed. "And what about you? What do you do on weekends?" His cocky grin made Arthur groan internally.

"That's my business."

"Maybe I can find out sometime," said Alfred cheerfully. Arthur snorted.

"Finish those breadsticks, Alfred. I don't like my money going to waste. Have a good afternoon, Feliciano," he added, passing the waiter as he returned to pick up the check. Feliciano waved. "Goodbye, signore!" he called after Arthur, happily, before striking up conversation with Alfred, who seemed excited at the prospect of having a proper conversation with somebody as talkative as himself.

Arthur put his free hand in his front pants pocket, turned the corner, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

"Arthur! You're late!"

"Yes, yes," grumbled Arthur, stopping at the receptionist's desk and looking up to address the Inspector, who had emerged unexpectedly from his office and caught sight of Arthur slinking into the building. The Inspector was a tall, blonde man with piercing blue eyes, rather broad shoulders, and a heavy German accent. Arthur did not know him well but the few times he'd spoken to him suggested he was not as intimidating as his appearance suggested; nonetheless, it was rather stressful to be addressed so sternly, and the Inspector – Belschmitt? Beilschmidt? – made an unfortunate habit of it.

"The Chief would like a word with you," the Inspector informed him, but in his harsh accent and domineering stature it sounded more like an order. "He says it's not urgent, but he'd like you to stop by this afternoon, if you have time."

"No, no, it's fine," said Arthur hurriedly, checking his pockets frantically for his ID card. "I – oh, blast – I'll speak with him immediately. I'll just drop my things off. He's in his office now?"

"He should be," said the Inspector – Ludwig, that was his first name – Ludwig nodded politely and walked away. Arthur finally located his card, flashed it at the middle-aged secretary, who smiled at him kindly, and hurried down the hallway toward the workroom.

He had a cubicle towards the back; he tossed his coat, keys, and box of uneaten pasta – his stomach gave a rueful groan – on his desk before departing. He crossed the hallway again, jogged up a flight of stairs, and made a left at the top. He knocked once on the polished wooden door, waited for a muffled "come in!", and entered.

The Chief was a large, portly man with an impressive mustache and an even more impressively balding head. He stuck out a fat hand, which Arthur shook briefly. He stood awkwardly in the doorway as the Chief returned to his desk chair.

"No need to be so stiff! Come in, relax, sit." Arthur took his offer and slid into the chair opposite, waiting.

"I heard you wanted to see me?" he asked apprehensively, crossing his arms subtly over his stomach to muffle any errant pangs of hunger.

"Yes, I appreciate your time," said the Chief, who had become distracted rifling through his desk drawer. "You're a good detective, Kirkland. I always liked you."

"Thank you, sir," said Arthur. He waited patiently; the Chief had a way of meandering through a conversation to get to his point. He was still digging through his desk drawer; he pulled out a manila envelope, tossed it onto the surface of the desk, and continued to poke through another drawer on his left.

"And yet," the Chief continued, still preoccupied with the contents of his drawer. "And yet! Very little time in the field, I hear? You prefer paperwork, Kirkland?"

"It's alright." Arthur had never particularly cared for fieldwork. It was an awful lot of conversation with witnesses and police officers and time spent skulking in shady alleyways. Initially the excitement of the field had been the lure of the career, but as time went on he'd found himself exhausted by it more than anything else. He supposed he'd spent too much time watching detective shows as a child.

"Ah, that's too bad," said the Chief, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from the drawer at last and shutting it. He split open the packaging with his thumbnail and extended the pack towards Arthur.

"You smoke, Kirkland?"

"No, sir," said Arthur. The Chief shrugged. "Too bad." He took a lighter from inside his coat pocket. "I mean, it's too bad about the fieldwork. We could really use somebody like you up higher in the ranks. You hear Ross is quitting?"

"I…no, I haven't," said Arthur, his breath catching. "Sergeant Ben Ross?"

"That's right." The Chief took a long drag from his cigarette. "You don't mind, do you?" he added, glancing at Arthur, who shook his head quickly. "Do me a favor and open that window. His wife's having a baby or something, I can't remember," he added, as Arthur jumped up and crossed the room. The sounds of traffic and pedestrians drifted in through the window. "Anyway, he's supposed to leave in a couple of months, I hear. We're looking for a replacement." Arthur inhaled sharply. "You interested?"

"Absolutely, sir." Arthur considered himself a professional man, but his heart had begun to dance in his chest and he fought the sudden urge to cheer.

"Alright, then, I've got a case for you, but it's fieldwork, alright? We're a little short-staffed right now. It's not a big deal, just a little investigation. We just need somebody to keep an eye on some things." The Chief adjusted his cigarette and turned his attention to the manila envelope on the table. He opened it and dumped the contents out in front of Arthur, who leaned forward in his chair for a better look.

Most of it was paperwork, but there were several photographs and a handful of newspaper articles. The Chief waved a hand casually in the air, inviting Arthur to take a look.

"We've been getting some reports," he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. "You ever heard of the Three Scarves?"

"Um," said Arthur, who had picked up one of the newspaper articles and was scanning it with interest.

"Well, technically, they're actually called something like…tree…tree sharf…ah, I can't pronounce it, it's something foreign." The Chief grunted, pushing another news article toward Arthur. This one wasn't written in English; the words три шарфы in the title were highlighted in yellow. "Anyway, it's some Russian gang that's sprouted up somewhere in Midtown. Supposedly run by this big guy, Ivan Braginski, but we're not sure. We've been having problems with them for a while; graffiti, brawls with other gangs, that kind of thing." The Chief leaned back in his chair. "A couple of weeks ago we got a tipoff that they'd started 'expanding their business interests'." At this last statement, the Chief made finger quotes with his free hand. "We're pretty sure it's something drug related."

"Any ideas?" asked Kirkland, still perusing the news articles.

"Who knows?" The Chief sighed. "Could be cocaine. Might even be heroin. Anyway, we wouldn't be too concerned, but last week we received a complaint from a restaurant owner uptown. Some kid's been hanging around the area and we think he might be involved with the gang, somehow."

Arthur raised an eyebrow in interest. The Chief tapped the desk again, gesturing to the photographs scattered on top of the paperwork. Arthur took another look and did a double take.

There were five photographs in total; a tall, imposing Russian man in white; a well-endowed but cheerful looking woman; a second long-haired blonde woman; and two blonde men who looked nearly identical. One of them was looking shyly away from the camera in some kind of school portrait, and the other was wearing a bomber jacket. Arthur groaned.

"Hmm? Something the matter?" The Chief pulled forward to look over the photographs.

"I've seen him before," said Arthur, pointing at the picture of the blonde boy in the jacket. It was unmistakably Alfred. He looked less thin and he wasn't wearing glasses, but he had the same cocky expression and errant cowlick. "He was at the Rosso Pomodoro today. The restaurant owner said he'd been there a couple of times this week."

"Yeah, that's the place," said the Chief. "That sounds like him, alright. The owner gave us a call on Monday afternoon, but by the time we sent an officer down to investigate, he'd left."

"Is there anything significant about him hanging around this particular restaurant?" asked Arthur. He decided not to mention that he'd given this particular suspect a free lunch and an excuse to stick around.

"We're not sure. He could just be loitering, of course. The owner mentioned that he sometimes speaks to the brother, I've heard? But we think he might be up to something. He's been spotted with other known members of the gang and he just happens to choose this particular restaurant to sit at, alone, for hours without eating? Something seems off." The Chief frowned, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk and lighting a second. "Either way, we think he might know something. We've been looking to shut them down for a while."

"So what is it you're asking me to do, exactly?" asked Arthur, slowly.

"Well, since we have no proof, we can't arrest him for anything," said the Chief. "We don't want to call him in for questioning, or we might tip off whoever sent him there. We'd like somebody to watch the restaurant. Keep an eye on him. See who he talks to, maybe listen around, find out some information about why he's there."

"You'd like me to sit in a restaurant all day and watch a teenage boy harass the restaurant owner?" asked Arthur, dryly. "Or talk to him, even? Doesn't that seem even more suspicious?"

"You're a smart man, Kirkland. I trust you can think of an excuse." The Chief exhaled another cloud of smoke. Arthur coughed pointedly. "You don't have to talk to him if you can't find an opportunity. It should be mostly observation." Arthur snorted. He wasn't even sure this qualified as an assignment. More like an extended vacation with pay.

Still…Sergeant Arthur Kirkland had a nice ring to it. He could be making six figures in a couple of years. Perhaps he could even take the promotional exam to become a Lieutenant, if there was an opening. What was a couple of weeks sitting in a restaurant?

"Arthur." His first name caught his attention. The Chief was watching him hopefully; Arthur was reminded rather suddenly of Alfred, sitting alone at a table on a slow Thursday afternoon. "Arthur, it doesn't seem like much, but this is an important case. We've been wanting to bust these guys for a while now. You'd look real good if you could get us some evidence."

At the very least, he'd get a free meal out of Alfred the next time he caught him hanging around. Arthur nodded.

"Excellent!" said the Chief, extinguishing his second cigarette and sticking out his arm again for another handshake. "I'll send you an email, you should start sometime next week."

"Thank you, sir." As soon as he'd left the office, Arthur glanced down the hallway cautiously, checked that the door had been shut, and did a little jig to himself. For the rest of the day he was in high spirits. Perhaps he could invest in a new apartment, or finally buy a car, or visit his family for Christmas. As he was packing to leave the office at the end of the day, he had a very brief thought of Alfred's photograph; smiling, laughing Alfred, in his bomber jacket. He wondered when he'd gotten glasses. Arthur shook his head, tossed his now empty tray of leftovers into the trashcan, and closed the door of the precinct behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

On Monday morning, Arthur slept in until eleven o'clock. The email had informed him that he needed to keep watch over the restaurant during its hours of operation, and the Rosso Pomodoro didn't serve breakfast, much to Arthur's delight. He took his time getting ready, taking a longer shower than usual, trying out the coffee maker his mother had sent him for his birthday last year and discovering that it worked fairly well. He lingered over a bowl of cereal, reading the paper with the television on low volume in the background, until eleven-forty five. The streets were more crowded at noon than they were at seven in the morning, and Arthur had some difficulty maneuvering through the traffic. The city was never quiet or still, but the morning rush was at least made up of other business workers, for the most part. At twelve, there were plenty of street vendors, tourists, and performers littering the streets, and the chorus of honking cars was much louder than he was used on his morning commute.

The Rosso Pomodoro was already more crowded at its opening time than anytime Arthur had frequented it, but to his relief there was an open seat in the back corner inside. The bell chimed when Arthur pushed the door open; Feliciano glanced up from the register, where he had been wiping down counters, and beamed.

" _Ciao_ , Arthur, you're here early, what brings you here before lunchtime?" Arthur opened his mouth to explain, but Feliciano gasped. "Oh, yes, I remember! The man from the police station called yesterday, is it true? Are you investigating somebody? Do you have those funny hats that the American detectives wear in those _gialli_? Can you–"

Lovino burst through the back doors and swatted Feliciano on the back of the head. _"Stai zitto_ , he's supposed to be undercover, remember? Go check on the pizzas in the back, I think they're done by now."

Lovino took the rag from Feliciano's hands; Feliciano waved to Arthur and left through the door his brother had come from. Arthur slid himself into the small two-seated booth and pulled out a laptop, browsing his email and methodically deleting spam from his inbox. He felt sixteen again, killing time at work during a slow shift and getting paid for it. He would have preferred to be doing something useful, at least. Perhaps he could convince the Chief to let him bring some paperwork in next time.

An hour passed without much incident; Feliciano snuck him a free basket of breadsticks, much to Lovino's annoyance, and Arthur had almost finished them when he caught sight of Lovino stiffen at the register. He glanced up and almost choked on the bread when he noticed a familiar bomber jacket and blonde hair. He was alone, same as the last time.

"…no, wait, I'm actually buying something this time! I was just going to get a cup of coffee." Alfred said hurriedly, as Lovino opened his mouth, presumably to shout at him again. "To go," Alfred added hastily. Lovino narrowed his eyes before glancing involuntarily in Arthur's direction. Following his line of sight, Alfred turned, his face lighting up unexpectedly.

"Hey, it's you! The English guy!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's my name."

Alfred laughed. "What are you doing here? Don't you eat later than this?"

"I'm still hungry from last week, when you ate all my breadsticks," said Arthur sarcastically. Alfred laughed again and opened his mouth to ask something; Lovino coughed loudly and held out Alfred's change. Alfred hung around the counter for his coffee, glancing every once in a while towards Arthur, who pointedly avoided his gaze. He still wasn't sure exactly how he was supposed to be keeping an eye on a potential gang member. He wondered vaguely if Alfred carried a weapon. He was certainly bigger and taller than Arthur, but he was lanky and seemed prone to nervous tics. Arthur had seen his kind before, under the bridges by the river, asleep under their coats, or cornering inexperienced tourists for money. Even as he stood in line, he was twitching. Arthur hoped he drank decaf.

He was so busy ignoring Alfred that he failed to notice his approach until he had already slid into the booth across from him.

"Aren't you in a hurry?" asked Arthur, keeping his eyes glued onto his computer. Alfred took a loud sip of coffee. "Now that the cashier's not jumping down my throat, I thought I'd stick around for a while."

"I'm sure that'll improve his mood." Lovino didn't seem to have noticed that Alfred was still hanging around, but Arthur had no doubts that he would be shooting them dirty looks over the counter again once he did.

"I'll risk it. I don't know why he's so mad, it's not like I'm bothering anyone."

Arthur stopped tapping his keyboard and raised an eyebrow; Alfred put his hands up defensively. "Alright, well, _you_ haven't complained yet, so he has no proof."

Arthur delayed his response for a couple of seconds, thinking. The kid had been kind enough to willingly sit himself down across from him, and if investigation was what he was being paid to do, a couple of questions couldn't hurt.

"So what are you doing here, if not harassing customers?" he asked. Once again, Alfred looked visibly uncomfortable; he drummed his fingers on the table and took another drink. Arthur pressed the topic. "You mentioned you were unemployed?"

"I…yeah, sort of. I mean, I make some money doing small jobs here and there." Arthur's interest was piqued. "What kind of jobs?"

Alfred's eyes darted evasively to the window for a brief second. "Just errands. The guy whose house I crash at makes me run out and pick up stuff for him sometimes. Groceries, movies. Sometimes he makes me do his tax forms and stuff. He's been pretty nice about letting us stay with him."

There was a distance in his words, as though he wasn't wholly committed to his story, but the plural caught Arthur's interest. "Us?"

"Yeah. My twin brother, Matt." His expressed hardened. "We share a room."

He had lost his anxious twitch at the mention of his brother; he resembled a balloon that had stopped whizzing around the room and had come to a rest on the floor, flat. Arthur remembered the photograph; the shy, softer-looking twin whose eyes couldn't quite meet the camera. He wondered what kind of person he was, to give Alfred such a mixed look of resentment and guilt in his eyes at the mention of his name.

"Does your brother…also work for him? This man, I mean." Arthur was a reasonably good liar, and an even better interrogator, and he was no stranger to playing this game with a good look at his opponent's hand…but Alfred was hiding his best cards, and it meant that he was either a lucky novice, or else far more skilled than Arthur was giving him credit for. The uncertainty was making him hesitate, and it took him a moment to deliver the question in the casual manner he'd intended.

Alfred didn't seem to notice; he seemed to be the one caught off guard, and he backtracked quickly. "Oh, jeez, no. Not really. I mean, sometimes he takes numbers, or makes dinner or something, but mostly he's just…"

He floundered for a moment; "Mostly just?"

"Just…sick." Alfred finished, lamely. There might have been a touch of irritation in the statement.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is it serious?"

Alfred snorted. "Yeah, sort of. He watches a lot of TV. Ivan won't let him leave the house – "

Ivan.

"-which pisses Matt off, obviously, but I agree with him, you know? He can't even run up the stairs without coughing up a lung-"

Alfred prattled on in this vein for several minutes while Arthur brooded over his cup. Alfred knew quite a few advanced medical terms that Arthur was unable to comprehend; he sounded like he'd been in the position of caretaker for a long time.

"Do you get along with him well?" asked Arthur, when he was done.

Alfred looked a little guilty at that. "Well, I mean…yeah, of course I do. We used to be really close, actually." He couldn't meet Arthur's eye. "It's kind of a pain to hang around your brother all the time though. Pretty lame."

It was clearly a personal opinion, one that Alfred was ashamed of admitting, and Arthur almost felt guilty for clarifying his question. "I meant Ivan." He, too, had been mentioned with a twinge of annoyance, one that had raised Arthur's suspicions.

Alfred went pink. "Oh, right. He's okay, I guess. Sort of creepy. He gets into all kinds of weird business."

It might have been better to just reveal his identity and interrogate him professionally instead of maneuvering gingerly through an undercover investigation. A detective's badge was better suited to wheedling information out of a witness than a suspect, and innocent bystanders were usually more reluctant to reveal incriminating evidence to random diners at cafés than officers of the law. Still, he held his tongue. He'd have to check with the Chief.

Alfred was still technically under investigation. And personally, he was in no hurry to leave the restaurant. Alfred, despite his chatty cockiness, was starting to grow on him, and once the investigation was wrapped up he would be back at his desk anyway, filing paperwork again.

Alfred, it transpired, had other plans. As Arthur was settling back in the seat, Alfred rose from his, phone in hand. It was vibrating frantically. Alfred swore, and threw a glance in Arthur's direction.

"I gotta go. Ivan needs me to get Matt's meds from the pharmacy." He sounded regretful. Arthur wondered if it was at Matt's expense or not. "I don't get why I have to run all these errands. I mean, Ivan has legs, you know? Why is it always me? That dude owes me some serious favors." He stood up from the booth to leave, grinning ruefully at Arthur, inviting him to commiserate with him.

"Speaking of favors, I was under the impression that you owed me some money from our last lunch," Arthur said, instead. Alfred suddenly became very interested in the zipper of his backpack and only laughed in response.

As he turned away, waving nonchalantly in Arthur's general direction, Arthur allowed himself a small smile. Feliciano delivered the basket of breadsticks and Arthur took one, watching the door where Alfred had left until he was lost among the incoming crowd of lunch rush customers.

* * *

"So what exactly do you do?" asked Alfred, munching his way through a fourth slice of pizza, which Arthur had purchased for the two of them after a great deal of badgering.

"What do _you_ do?" Arthur fired back, still working on his first piece. The two of them were seating outside again, as the cool, fall breeze offered an inviting reprieve from the hot summer August heat that had been plaguing the city. Arthur's spirited protests against the investigation had fallen on deaf ears, and the Chief had insisted that he continue to stake out the restaurant until further notice. So Arthur was back, determinedly questioning Alfred, who seemed both too naïve to realize Arthur was interrogating him and too cautious to answer any of his questions fully. "You seem to have an awful lot of free time."

"I told you, I run errands for my roommate," said Alfred casually. "At least I go home sometimes. You're always hanging around here."

"You've got me there," Arthur admitted.

"I bet you're pretty rich," said Alfred wistfully, leaning back in his chair. "To have all this free time."

Arthur shrugged. The truth was, he did have quite a bit of money, accumulated from a combination of his long work hours and a sizeable inheritance from a wealthy family member some years back. It was expensive, living in the city.

"Man, I wish I had that kind of money," Alfred mused, shrugging on his battered bomber jacket and gazing wistfully into the crowd of passerby.

"You should get a better job." said Arthur, without glancing up from his laptop. Alfred snorted.

"In this economy?" He grabbed a breadstick, which Arthur had ordered out of habit. Alfred looked back at him. "I bet you're a famous writer." He tried to lean over to peer at the screen of the laptop, but Arthur shut it hastily and glared at him. Alfred laughed. "Are you embarrassed? I bet you'd be a pretty good author. All the best authors are British."

"'But in considering the American past, how poor we would be in information without Huckleberry Fin, An American Tragedy, Winesburg, Ohio, Main Street, The Great Gatsby, and As I Lay Dying.'" Arthur quoted. Alfred looked pleased.

"John Steinback. Nice." He swirled the ice in his glass of water with his straw. "Do you actually know that quote off the top of your head? That's so pretentious."

"My father was a professor," Arthur mused. "I read a lot of books."

"That's nice. My old man couldn't be bothered to read a grocery list." Alfred took the straw out of the glass and sucked on the end of it with his teeth like a cigarette. "What's the rest of your family like?"

"I have three brothers," said Arthur.

"Geez, it's hard enough with one," said Alfred, chewing thoughtfully on the straw. "Do you get along with them?"

Arthur shrugged. "Not when I was younger. But once I moved away, you start to miss your family."

Alfred snorted. "I should try that."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Alfred looked guilty and embarrassed as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "I didn't mean that." He dropped his eye again in favor of stirring the water with his straw again. The ice cubes swirled around in a whirlpool, clinking loudly against the glass. Alfred had started drumming his fingers on the table again with his other hand.

Arthur knew he wasn't getting paid to give his suspect relationship advice, but he felt bad, seeing Alfred turn in on himself like that, looking like a small child, chastised for teasing his brother. "Maybe it would help if you talked with him, actually. I'm sure he'd appreciate your charming company." Arthur meant the last statement sarcastically, but Alfred looked pleased anyway. He stopped twitching his fingers and steadied the glass with his free hand.

"Maybe my charming company is worth the price of another pizza?" he asked, hopefully, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I won't be rich much longer if you keep bleeding me dry like this," he grumbled, but he pulled out his wallet nonetheless.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur was still doubtful about Alfred's real involvement with the Russian mob – a first name wasn't much to go off of, and he seemed too carefree and his words flowed too freely to be a grunt of Ivan's. He had skimmed the case files on all of the suspects, but he hadn't gotten very far past the first one before he'd nodded off in front of the television.

The next morning, he rose even later than he had on the first day, taking his time in the shower, carefully perusing the newspaper, watching the news channel shift from weather reports to Spanish soap operas around midday. He retained his skepticism all the way from his apartment the street, through the crosswalk, and at the corner, until the restaurant was in sight. Arthur found himself scanning the heads of the customers outside, wondering if Alfred was already there. The sun was bright in the sky, and there was a slow but persistent breeze drifting lazily through the buildings. Perhaps he would be sitting outside.

The man in front of Arthur was rather wideset, so it was a few seconds before he could catch a clear glimpse of the restaurant through the crowd, but when he did he noticed the familiar blonde hair and faded bomber jacket sitting at one of the tables. Alfred's arms were crossed and he was staring off to the side with a stony expression.

As Arthur made his way across the street, he saw the source of Alfred's annoyance, and his stomach dropped like a stone. Standing across the table, his shadow nearly eclipsing even Alfred's lanky figure, was a very tall man with white hair, wearing a long coat and scarf even in the heat. Arthur's pace slowed and he allowed a couple of teenagers behind him to pass. Ivan Braginski was too far away to hear, but whatever he was saying seemed to be making Alfred mad. His jaw was set and his mouth was in a thin line. He seemed to be watching the tourists again, but this time Arthur had almost reached his table before Alfred spotted him.

As soon as he noticed Arthur, he uncrossed his arms and waved, a silly grin breaking up the stiff glare. "Hey, Arthur! What are you doing here so late?" There was a serious question hidden in the casual greeting. Ivan stopped speaking abruptly.

"Hello, Alfred," said Arthur, pulling up an extra chair. He smiled at Ivan. "Who's your friend?" There was no mistaking him – Ivan Braginski appeared exactly the same as his case file photo, down to the heavy scarf and piercing eyes like ice shards.

Ivan opened his mouth to respond, but Alfred beat him to the punch. "This is Ivan. He's the roommate I was talking about. He was just leaving, though, right?"

Ivan shot him a look. "Perhaps we could finish this conversation in private, another time." He spoke very quietly, though perhaps it only seemed that way because Alfred was so loud by contrast. "It was nice meeting you, Arthur."

He glared at Alfred, who only waved languidly, before nodding his head and leaving the same way Arthur had come. The crowd seemed to part for him, and within seconds he had been swallowed by a crowd of tourists.

"Has he come to evict you?" Arthur asked lightly, swiping Alfred's unopened menu. Alfred laughed.

"Nah, he wouldn't do that. He's bugging me about rent." Alfred leaned over the table, which wobbled dangerously. "Anything good on the specials?"

Arthur held the menu out of reach this time. "Get your own." Alfred stuck his tongue out and leaned back in his chair, waving at Feliciano through the window, who beamed. "Generally, eviction usually follows rent troubles. I thought you were running errands for your landlord?"

"He's not my landlord, he's my roommate." Alfred protested. "He's just doing me a favor."

"Seems like a pricey favor," mused Arthur. "Considering you have no money."

Alfred groaned. "I'll pay you for those breadsticks, all right? Cut me some slack! I'm a reliable guy. I'll have money in a couple of weeks."

Arthur seriously doubted that anybody had ever used the word 'reliable' to describe Alfred before in his life. "Planning to win the lottery? Or have you finally got a real job?"

For somebody supposedly involved in a criminal ring, Alfred was an awful liar. Arthur wondered why someone as talented as Ivan bothered to employ someone so easily tripped up. Was he utilizing some skill that Arthur was unaware of? Did Ivan simply enjoy the feeling of having henchmen who were far less competent than him?

"Er….sort of." He was checking the zipper on his jacket now, once again avoiding Arthur's eye. "I've got a, uh, friend. He hired me to do some jobs for him. Nothing big but I can pay everyone back when it's done." He cleared his throat and then laughed, leaning forward and grabbing the menu while Arthur's guard was down. "How's that novel of yours coming along? Write anything good lately?"

Arthur had to admit that Alfred had a talent for keeping information to himself, even if he wasn't very good at pretending he didn't have it at all. "How's that brother of yours?" he countered. Two could play at this game. At least Arthur had some practice in deception.

"Touché," said Alfred, distractedly, less shy about the subject than usual, though Arthur noticed his cheeks had turned pink. "He's doing alright, I guess. We didn't get a lot of time to talk but we talked about our weekends." He smiled. "He actually gets a lot more done during the day than you'd think."

"He sounds better," said Arthur. "That's encouraging."

"Well, duh." Alfred said, as though it were obvious. "Apparently some people have been saying I'm 'charming company'." He winked at Arthur, who snatched the menu back out of his hands.

"I hope you didn't bore him with your astrology lessons," he commented from behind the screen. Alfred looked offended. "Astronomy, Arthur, jeez. Come on! How can you _not_ think the Voyager Golden Record is the coolest thing NASA's ever put into space?"

Alfred went off onto a tangent about intelligent life on other planets and time capsules, and Arthur resigned himself to searching through the extensive wine selection instead of ordering an appetizer.

* * *

"I just don't get it," Arthur complained, pacing back and forth while the Chief signed various papers at his desk. "I mean, this guy's the head of the Russian mob! You'd think he could find better cronies to do his dirty work. This kid's head is so far in the clouds he might as well be an astronaut."

"Well, then, you should have no problem finding some incriminating evidence," said the Chief absentmindedly, without looking up from his desk. "How long have you been on this case, now? A few weeks?"

Arthur hesitated. "I mean…he's a bad liar, but he's stubborn. He's awfully closed off about anything _important_." Though God knows he could chatter on about his feelings on alien conspiracies for an hour without interruption. "I just don't understand. He's a nice guy, but I'm assuming Ivan doesn't hire people for having hearts of gold."

"I'm sure his acceptance into Johns Hopkins and Massachusetts didn't hurt his resume," said the Chief. Arthur stopped pacing abruptly.

The Chief laughed. "You're losing your edge, Kirkland. He was a finalist in the NYCSEF a couple of years back. It was all over the papers. Something about stimulating growth of white blood cells or something like that. He said he'd been accepted to five different medical schools, with full rides to at least two of them. "

"I didn't know that," Arthur muttered, embarrassed. He'd long ago concluded – or perhaps even hoped – that Alfred's involvement with Ivan was purely coincidental, or at least minor enough to warrant an official interrogation instead sneaking around, trying to wheedle information out of somebody clearly capable of holding onto the important pieces. The knowledge that Alfred wasn't an idiot probably meant he was intentionally avoiding Arthur's questions instead of accidentally meandering around them, and it made Arthur surprisingly irritable that he had been fooled.

"You should read the file briefings more carefully," said the Chief. "Never underestimate your suspect! Paperwork may not lie, Kirkland, but people do. Although, Ivan could have hired him for other reasons. You should get back to work and do some more digging."

The Chief returned to his next stack of papers, which Arthur took as his cue to leave. He turned to open the door.

"I know you're a good detective, Arthur. Don't write people off so easily."


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred didn't show up the next day.

Storm clouds came to the city in his stead, and Arthur chose to take refuge inside, huddled in the back corner in a small booth, typing up paperwork, sending emails, reading the news. Feliciano swept by every half hour, checking to see if Arthur wanted to order lunch or needed a refill on his tea, but otherwise Arthur sat without speaking from the moment he entered the restaurant until he decided Alfred wasn't going to show. After the first day, he asked Feliciano if Alfred had changed his visit times to the evening, but neither of the brothers had seen or heard from him.

He didn't come in for the remainder of the week, and on Friday, Arthur gave up, waving goodbye to a disgruntled Lovino at noon to make room for the incoming lunch rush.

In his briefing, Arthur had been told he didn't need to stake out the café on weekends, and to only show up if the brothers reported suspicious activity, but he couldn't help passing by once or twice on his way to run errands on Sunday. Feliciano didn't notice him; he was on the other side of the street, camouflaged by the crowd. Neither Alfred nor his formidable boss was in sight; Arthur sighed and turned his attention back to the crosswalk.

* * *

On Monday, Alfred didn't show up again, and Arthur left early. He had barely gotten back to the station when a call came in from Lovino, who told him irritably that Alfred had arrived after the usual lunch rush and was once again loitering out front.

Arthur hurriedly retraced his route back to his usual table outside, where Alfred was now sitting alone, hunched over and hidden behind a menu.

He looked up in surprise when Arthur's shadow blotted out the sun. "I thought you ate lunch earlier than this."

"Are you avoiding me?" Arthur inquired, sliding into the opposite seat. "I'm quite persistent, you know. I'm charging interest on these 'free' lunches of yours." He reached out for the menu, but Alfred jerked it out of his grasp. "What's the matter with you? Are you planning to pay for our lunch today?"

Alfred looked away, still half-crouched behind the folder. "I don't have any money."

"Well, then, give it here, what's the point of holding onto it?" He tugged impatiently at the menu, and Alfred let it go reluctantly. He turned away, embarrassed, and Arthur stopped in the middle of pulling the folder into his own lap, holding it suspended above the table.

"What the blooming hell happened to your face?" he demanded, openly staring at Alfred's jaw, where a dark bruise was swelling. His lip was puffy and it seemed he'd hastily taped a Band-Aid below it to catch the blood.

"It's no big deal," Alfred said, laughing nervously, covering the bruise with one hand and pushing the menu fully into Arthur's chest with the other. "Order some more of those cannoli things. I had to work this morning, I'm starving."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I hope that's where you were all week," he said, looking pointedly at Alfred's jaw, which resembled a swollen plum. "Making money at this new job of yours. Unless you were mugged."

Alfred rubbed the bruise tenderly. "I'm not as good this work as I thought I was."

"Maybe you should find a different one."

Alfred snorted. "You try paying hospital bills in the States. Wish I got free healthcare."

"If they don't take it from you at the hospital, they'll take it from you in taxes," Arthur pointed out.

Alfred looked rather morose at that. "Wish I wasn't so fucking broke," he muttered, sticking his free hand in his coat pocket and turning his head to watch the crowds of tourists across the street absentmindedly. For a while they said nothing; Alfred appeared deep in thought. A cold breeze whipped through the skyscrapers and blew Alfred's cowlick flat for a moment; Arthur thought he looked more serious than usual. Tired. For once, his glasses weren't askew. For a moment, he could see the Alfred who could have gone to Johns Hopkins, who had a 4.4 GPA, who graduated high school a year ahead of schedule. The Chief was right; his resume was extremely impressive.

"You know," Arthur said, hesitantly. "They're hiring interns down at Bellevue. Maybe I could speak to one of the nurses and get you an interview."

Alfred looked up excitedly for a moment; his hand fell away from cupping his chin. "One of my professors used to work there." His interest gave way to uncertainty. "I'd – that sounds really cool, but I don't know how much free time I have." He looked down at his hands, his eyebrows furrowed. "They probably wouldn't hire a college dropout, anyway."

Arthur dug into his back pocket for his wallet; he rifled through several receipts and extracted a crumpled business card with a very curly signature. He tossed it in front of Alfred, who picked it up and examined it closely. Arthur felt his face turn pink as Alfred turned the card over and took notice of a very visible heart drawn in red pen scribbled by the secretary next to the phone number listed. Alfred raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"Friend of yours?" he asked, slyly.

Arthur scowled. The sooner Alfred stopped involving himself with Ivan, and by extension, the NYPD, the better.

* * *

"How's your brother?" asked Arthur. It was sunny once more, but the air had turned colder, and Arthur huddled his hands inside the pockets of his pea coat. Alfred had his usual bomber jacket on, though it was zipped up now. He sighed.

"Better." Arthur nodded in approval. Alfred hesitated for a second. "I've been hanging out with him a lot more lately. I feel kind of bad, I've been working so much that I never get to see him."

"That's good to hear. I'm sure he appreciates the company." Arthur blew on his tea to cool it off. Alfred looked slightly guilty.

"I'm not sure he does. I've been kind of a crappy brother lately, to be honest." He sagged back in his chair and looked up at the sky. "I kind of took it out on him when I had to quit school a couple of years ago. I was being pretty selfish."

"I don't think that's selfish," said Arthur. Alfred shrugged. "Maybe not. But my reaction was pretty selfish. It wasn't his fault he got sick."

They were quiet for a rare moment; even the sounds of the city seemed to fade into white noise, barely registering in Arthur's ears. For a minute it was just the two of them, at a rusty table, the wind teasing the checkered tablecloth and sending ripples through Arthur's tea.

"He used to play hockey," Alfred said. "Before he got sick. He was really good."

"That's impressive. What position did he play?" Arthur had never been very interested in any kind of sports, aside from soccer, but he'd been to a Rangers game once or twice.

"Winger. He was so fast, he used to zip around all the bigger guys, no problem. He was the smallest kid on the team." Alfred grinned. "I'm too big to be a forward. I used to play football. Offensive lineman."

"You? On the football team?" Alfred was very tall, and his shoulders were definitely wider than Arthur's, but his face was thin and Arthur suspected his collarbones were a bit more exposed now than they had been back in his high school days. Alfred wiped his nose on his sleeve, his fingers twitching slightly, as if to emphasize the point.

"Hey! I used to be a lot bigger," he protested, patting his chest. "It's not _that_ unbelievable. I got scouted by NYU at one point. Matt talked me into applying to the science program, though." He looked wistful. "I bet I'd make serious bank as a doctor."

"Sounds like he's pretty intuitive," said Arthur.

"He's actually a pretty cool guy," Alfred admitted, smiling. "I mean, he always was, but I guess I thought he stopped being cool when he got sick or something, 'cause I never saw him. But he's hilarious. We watched X-Files last night and he had all these cool theories about the boxcar and the dead bodies and stuff."

"People can surprise you when you get to know them," said Arthur, taking a sip of his tea and sitting back in his seat, looking over at Alfred, who seemed to have his head in the clouds, as usual.

"That reminds me," Alfred said, snapping out of his daydream, leaning over the chair and digging through a burlap bag on the ground he'd brought with him. Arthur sat up as he pulled out a stack of papers and placed them on the table. "I called that number you gave me, and the guy who interviewed me said he liked my attitude. He wants me to formally apply for the position."

"That's excellent!" said Arthur, pleasantly surprised. Alfred looked taken aback by this unusual enthusiasm. He turned pink and pushed the stack of papers toward Arthur. "I was wondering…since you're some kind of writer and all…maybe you could look over the essays for me? I haven't written a paper in like, five years."

"I'm not sure how good it'll be, but I'll add it to your tab," Arthur said, reaching into his coat pocket for a pen.

* * *

"So what are your plans this weekend, Arthur?" Alfred asked cheerfully. The sun was shining, almost painfully bright, and Arthur had to shield his eyes to look across the table.

"Well, it's supposed to rain, so I guess not much of anything," he said, wistfully. Alfred grinned. "I'm thinking of taking Matt out to the museum on Friday. He's been a lot better the last few weeks. I'm supposed to get a paycheck for coming to the orientation meeting or whatever, so I think we have enough money to swap over to this new medication that's supposed to have fewer side effects."

Arthur couldn't help but smile. "Sounds like you're bonding."

Alfred went pink, but grinned. "I'm trying to make it up to him. I haven't been much of a brother lately."

"Neither has Feliciano." Lovino suddenly appeared behind Arthur with the usual plate of bread and oil. "This fucking idiot, I swear, I have been asking him all week to call Nonno Roma and tell him to come down this weekend and he keeps forgetting." He hit the side of his own head with the base of his palm. " _Idiota._ "

"Nonno Roma?" asked Arthur, taking the plate from Lovino's hands. Alfred looked suddenly interested in the change of topic.

"Our grandfather," Lovino explained, wiping his hands on his apron. "He lives in Rome, but he comes down to help manage the restaurant."

" _Sì_!" Feliciano suddenly appeared as well, opposite his brother with a water pitcher. "He's very rich. He trades in paintings."

"Shhh!" Lovino hit him angrily, but lightly. "Don't go shouting that all over town, are you stupid?"

"When's he coming down?" blurted Alfred. Feliciano grinned.

"Friday! We will be closing early, of course, we are planning to take him to the park and the museums, he can't be here long of course, he has an important meeting with a big art dealer in the city, but it's so wonderful when he visits…"

Alfred's eyes seemed to glaze over slightly as Feliciano began to ramble. He suddenly seemed preoccupied with his thoughts.

Lovino rolled his eyes and turned to go back inside, but not before Arthur caught a small smile tugging at his lips.

Feliciano had gone off tangent again, going on about some upcoming soccer match; Alfred was nodding along, asking about the game times, talking about watching it on television, placing lighthearted bets with Feliciano about the outcome. After he'd gone back to get their plates, however, Alfred stood up.

"I totally forgot, I have work today," he said, pulling out his phone and checking the time, looking anxious and jumpy. "Money calls."

"Enough to pay for this risotto you haven't even gotten yet?" Arthur said, habitually.

"Maybe next time!" called Alfred, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and waving as he hurried out of the restaurant, down the street, and disappearing around the corner.

* * *

On Thursday, Alfred showed up late again.

Arthur had already ordered, and he waved his hands at his plate of breadsticks, inviting Alfred to partake, but Alfred shook his head and sat down, stumbling slightly, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. Arthur frowned. Alfred never turned down an open invitation for food. He didn't even open his menu.

"What's up?" Arthur asked cautiously, taking his hands out from his coat pockets to reach across the table for another piece of bread. The sun had abruptly vanished behind thick white clouds earlier that morning, and the air was unusually chilly.

Alfred smiled nervously. "Nothing," he said. "Just cold." Arthur noticed that his eyes were red, and he was squinting, as though the overcast day were too bright for him. Arthur murmured his agreement and chewed slowly. They both sat in silence for a couple of minutes, their breath rising up in puffs, Alfred looking down at the table in thought, and Arthur pretending to not notice the uncomfortable pause. Alfred couldn't keep his mouth shut for long.

His patience was rewarded. As he unfolded his hands for his second breadstick, Alfred suddenly spoke up, as if he'd been trying to keep his thoughts to himself but couldn't.

"Okay…this is going to sound really weird, but trust me, okay?" he said, urgently. "Don't…don't come here this weekend." His words slurred slightly. Arthur narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious.

"Are you drunk?" he asked, sharply. "It's noon, for God's sake." Arthur was no stranger to day drinking, but it was a bad habit, and one he had never observed in Alfred. Alfred didn't even seem to register his question. He was stuttering to himself, as if he was still working through what he wanted to say.

"Okay…you didn't hear this from me, alright? I've been hearing around town that something's going to happen this weekend, and I think it would just be better if you stayed out of the area. And me too, I mean. If we both weren't here. I mean, I'm busy anyway, uh, taking care of Matt, so it won't be a problem for me, obviously, but I just wanted to tell you so you, um, didn't get caught in the middle of something or whatever."

"What's happening this weekend?" Arthur asked, curiously, cautiously surprised. Alfred had never given him so much information unprompted before. At least, not where it counted, for what the investigation was worth.

"It's nothing, I don't even know, really," Alfred laughed awkwardly, meeting Arthur's eye inconsistently. "Just some stupid stuff, nothing violent or anything. I mean, don't call the cops about it, I don't think it's anything dangerous, I just know you're a pretty white-collar guy, you know." He trailed off into an awkward silence, waiting for Arthur to say something.

Arthur opened his mouth again, but this time he couldn't think of anything to say. He had a verbal confession from one of the potential suspects. He could lead them straight to Ivan when it was all over. They had proof.

Not over. Just starting. He had to write a report, had to question Alfred, find out the details, the dates -

Alfred started to stammer again, apparently anxious from Arthur's silence. "I'm serious, it's nothing, I'm not even going to mention it to Feli, they know what this area's like, I just – you're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

Arthur finally caught his eye, and for a few moments all he could hear was Alfred's heaving breaths and his own heart beating. The icy wind had reddened Alfred's exposed cheeks and nose, and for a moment Arthur saw the same young, carefree high school boy from the case file, trusting and intelligent and destined for something better than organized crime and wasted afternoons at an Italian café with an old cynical detective. A man who had been swept up in something much bigger than himself, a young man who was larger than life but not large enough to hold himself against the responsibilities of hospice care and drug use.

Dates, details, paperwork, questions, statements, evidence–

"You said it's nonviolent crime?" Arthur asked, slowly. "This…this source of yours. You know nobody's going to be hurt?"

Alfred exhaled slowly. "I promise," he said. "And really, it's not a big deal, don't worry about it." His eyes dropped to the ground; he stuttered again, as though his next words were a hopeful afterthought. "Maybe…maybe we can meet up again sometime. After this blows over."

Arthur closed his eyes. "I expect so."

Alfred looked very pleased to hear this. He raised his head, exuberant at Arthur's words, and beamed. "It's a date, then."


	6. Chapter 6

Alfred didn't stay long; Arthur had a suspicion that he hadn't planned to come in the first place. After a few more minutes of nervous small talk, Alfred said something about meeting a friend and picked himself out of the bent chair, pushing his untouched menu towards Arthur and waving goodbye.

Arthur sat alone in silence, thinking hard, his breath coming out in visible puffs. He sat for a long time, watching Lovino shuffle in and out of the kitchen, muttering irritably about the traffic in his restaurant; taking a refill of his tea occasionally as Feliciano passed him, chattering happily about the arrival of their grandfather, who was due later that evening. Arthur smiled thinly and returned to his emails, cleaning out his inbox and occasionally returning to the open tab that held a mostly unfinished investigation report.

The café closed early in preparation for Nonno Roma. Arthur shut his laptop and pushed his way through the doors into the back kitchen, where Lovino was washing dishes and Feliciano was lazily mopping the floor.

"I'm going to bring in extra security this weekend," Arthur said, heavily. Feliciano stopped pushing the mop and looked up expectantly.

"What happened?" asked Lovino warily. He looked very tired. Arthur hadn't seen him stop cleaning since the announcement of the arrival of their grandfather. The kitchen was as white as he had ever seen it. Even the red pizza stains were gone from the shining floor tiles.

"It's Alfred, isn't it?" Feliciano asked. Lovino stopped scrubbing the plate and waited for Arthur's response.

"I don't know," he sighed. A half-truth. "He's definitely knows about something going on this weekend, and I think having a couple of extra officers patrolling would be a good idea."

"That rat bastard," said Lovino furiously. "Of all the days. _Fuck!"_ He threw his dishrag into the sink and strode out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him; the rag's impact threw soapy bubbles into the air and splashed water across the clean floor. Arthur could hear him cursing in Italian through the walls.

Feliciano looked startled, but after a moment he dragged the mop over to the sink and began to break up the water from the wet spot around the tiles.

Arthur stood in the threshold of the kitchen, gazing at the puddle of soapy dishwater. "You probably shouldn't come in this weekend. Our officers can watch the shop for you."

Feliciano laughed. "I don't think you could keep Lovino away from here if you arrested him. He always looks forward to Nonno Roma's visits. He always wants him to see the restaurant, make him proud, you know?"

"Well, I suppose I can't stop you," said Arthur, shaking his head. "Keep an eye out, and don't hesitate to give us a call."

"Thank you, officer," said Feliciano, smiling. He hesitated. "You know, I still cannot think of Alfred as a bad person. I think he will make the right choice." He looked uncharacteristically serious. "We all make mistakes."

"This is a hell of a mistake to make, but I hope you're right," said Arthur gravely.

* * *

At Arthur's request, two undercover police officers were stationed outside the restaurant. Arthur himself requested to be left off the case, saying he preferred to catch up on his paperwork. His boss frowned, but there were plenty of other officers who were more than happy to take on the prestige of being the one to catch the notorious Ivan Braginsky, so he let it go. Friday came and went without incident. The café closed early and a report was called in that the officers would be dispatched after the brothers left. A uniformed policeman was set to patrol the street in case of after-hours activity.

Saturday morning, Arthur woke up late, as usual. He sat around in his pajamas, scrolling through emails and reading the news, and then decided to give up on productivity entirely and watch television. By dinnertime, he had shifted channels and landed on an Animal Planet documentary about fishing. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the couch to make himself a meal. So he closed his eyes.

"The barracuda is native to Florida coasts, the Bahamas, and the Caribbean," the narrator was saying, in a monotone. "The Great Barracuda ranges from foot-long juveniles on shallow flats to 50 pounds or more off- shore. Usual maximum is around 30 pounds, with the average being 5-15 pounds…"

Arthur began to drift again; it was quite comfortable, laying on the couch under the blankets in the wintertime, listening to the gentle murmur of the television and the hum of the city in the background. It was louder here than back in London, but it had the same kind of rhythmic babble that he was used to; even living by himself, he could never feel too alone in a city with over eight million people.

"Live baits make the best natural bait for the barracuda," the man was saying on the television. "They'll sink their teeth into almost anything, so any kind of smaller bait is best for luring them."

The problem, Arthur thought sleepily, was how to keep the smaller fish from being eaten without losing the barracuda. How could you warn the bait without scaring away the predator?

* * *

At two-thirty in the morning, the phone rang.

Arthur listened to the call, stone-faced, then threw on something that wasn't pajamas, snatched his gun and badge from the bedside table, and called a taxi for the first time since he'd moved into his apartment four years ago.

When he arrived at the Rosso Pomodoro, there were already several police cars blocking off the street, and men in uniforms were clustered all around in groups, some lingering inside the café.

He pushed past the officers, nodding numbly as a handful of them recognized him from work and waved hello. He caught snatches of their conversations – "—attempted armed robbery—" "—suspect apprehended—". Someone was wailing.

Arthur sidestepped the open door of a police car, and at one of the tables outside he saw Feliciano, sobbing loudly into his hands, while Ludwig sat at the chair across from him, awkward but clearly upset as well, patting his shoulder and whispering something Arthur couldn't hear.

"What happened?" he demanded, pushing the third chair out of the way and looking to Ludwig for an explanation. He glanced at Feliciano in bewilderment to emphasize his point. He knew, of course he knew, the officer on the phone had explained it already, but he had to hear it from someone else, someone in person, because—

"Erm," Ludwig looked extremely flustered, but Feliciano lifted his head and spoke the words Arthur was dreading.

"They shot him," he cried, pointing to the ambulance that had just arrived. Arthur whipped around, but he couldn't identify the person being carried towards it. "They shot Lovino."

Arthur went numb. Feliciano dissolved into tears and Ludwig rested his hand his shoulder again, opening his mouth as if to try to console him again before closing it and addressing Arthur.

"There was an attempted armed robbery," he said, speaking in a much softer voice than Arthur was used to hearing. "The brother was attacked from behind. The suspect's in here." He tilted his head towards the brightly lit café, where several officers were milling about, collecting evidence. A lone figure was hunched in the far booth, his head turned so Arthur couldn't see his face. Only his bomber jacket was visible in the dim café lights.

Arthur turned and headed for the doors, flashing his badge to the policeman standing guard outside, who nodded and stepped aside. He headed for the back, where he found Alfred slumped against the red cushions, handcuffed to one of the open pipes that ran along the wall. He waved away the nearby guard, who immediately removed himself to the back of the restaurant when he saw Arthur's rank.

Alfred looked up warily when he heard Arthur slide into the opposite booth.

"Arthur!" he cried. He didn't even seem to register why he was there, at the restaurant, at two-thirty in the morning. He looked at Arthur as though his personal savior was sitting across the table, and Arthur felt a huge rush of guilt. Alfred leaned forward, looking even more scared than the last time Arthur had seen him. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Arthur asked him, angrily. "You told me you were taking Matt to the museum! You said you weren't going to be here this weekend!"

Alfred shut his eyes and sagged into the seat, shaking. His glasses were bent and one of the lenses was cracked. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't know it was going to happen like this. I didn't know, I swear. You have to believe me."

"What the _hell_ happened?" Arthur pointed to the officers in the kitchen, clutching bags of broken glass and bullet fragments and other evidence. "What did you _do,_ Alfred?"

He winced. "Don't…don't do that. Don't remind me. The smell…it's making me sick."

For the first time, Arthur noticed the unmistakable smell of blood. He felt dizzy and he clutched the edge of the table. Alfred turned his head away from the kitchen door and breathed through his mouth, eyes still shut tight.

A minute passed in silence, Alfred taking quick, shallow breaths, Arthur's hand clenched.

"Alfred," he repeated quietly, fingers still wrapped around the table. His knuckles were white and his palms were starting to hurt. "What did you do?"

"It wasn't supposed to go like this," Alfred whispered. "Ivan said nobody was going to get hurt. We just had to come in, take some cash. He was going to let me keep half of it. They weren't even supposed to be here. They were supposed to go to that art thing with their grandfather. I checked. I saw Feli leave. I don't know why….I don't know why his brother was here."

Alfred fell quiet, as though hoping Arthur would talk, but when Arthur said nothing he took a deep breath and continued. "We came in. I thought the café was empty. All the lights were off. Ivan told me to go stand watch at the door in case they came back. He said he was going to check out the kitchen. I don't know what happened. I didn't have the gun. I heard Lovino start shouting. Ivan…he…" Alfred swallowed. Arthur had never heard him cry before, but his voice was definitely wavering. He dropped to a whisper. "Arthur, there was so much blood." He jangled his hands loosely in his handcuffs, and Arthur saw that his palms were slick and red. They moved to unzip his bomber jacket; his t-shirt underneath was also soaked in blood. "I tried to stop it, it was everywhere, I called 911 and I stayed back to help him and Ivan…Ivan ran."

Arthur gritted his teeth, torn between feeling pain and mounting fury. The patrolling officer must have heard the shot, but Ivan had gotten away anyway.

"And then…the cops showed up, and they brought Feliciano…"Alfred's voice trailed off. "And then…you showed up…how'd you…?"

Arthur unclenched his hand from the table and reached into his back pocket. A look of comprehension was dawning across Alfred's face. Arthur pulled out his badge and threw it on the table, but Alfred had realized the truth before it left his hands. "You're a cop."

"Detective, actually." Arthur wondered what he was supposed to be doing. He obviously wasn't here to bag evidence. He was sure the Chief would need to speak to him. Alfred's confusion was slowly giving way to understanding.

"That's why you were here every day, hanging around. That's what you were doing, right? Investigating me or something?"

"A fat lot of good it did for this case," muttered Arthur. "You're going to jail, we're no closer to incriminating Ivan, and Lovino's in the hospital. Great work."

He was berating himself, but Alfred flinched as though Arthur had slapped him. He shut his eyes and turned away. Arthur might have felt guilty if he wasn't brimming with anger and exhaustion. The ringing of the restaurant's doorbell made him look up, and suddenly Ludwig was at his side. "The Chief wants to see you, Kirkland. Feliciano's…the victim's brother is coming back with us to the station. We're going to need to get some testimonies."

Alfred lifted his head timidly. "Is he…is Lovino alright?"

Ludwig shot Alfred a cold glare and did not respond. He gestured for Arthur to follow. Arthur didn't turn back until they were already out the door. Through the glass window he caught a glimpse of Alfred, who had put his head back down into his bloodstained coat sleeves and did not look up to see Arthur go.

* * *

"But we didn't even get Braginsky," said Arthur wearily. He was back in the Chief's office, for once breathing deeply as the Chief had been too busy congratulating him to light up a cigarette. "What are we celebrating?"

"We've got one of his associates in custody," said the Chief, thumbing through paperwork cheerfully. "We have the grounds to interrogate him officially now that he's committed a crime, and we have the leverage of his sentence to get his cooperation. If we offer him a plea deal I'm sure he'll tell us anything we need to know. This is a big step, Kirkland. The first official arrest of a Three Scarves gang member. This'll be all over the papers. If we can get Jones to nail Braginski, I see a badge with Sergeant on it in your future."

"What happened to Lovino?" Arthur pressed. "Is he alright?"

"The shop owner? I think he's still in serious condition but he's expected to pull through." The Chief shook his head. "Shot in the back. Coward's ambush."

Arthur looked down at his hands and said nothing. They were as clean as they had been the night before, sitting in front of the television, watching documentaries about fish. He hadn't touched Alfred in the café, not even to comfort him. He remembered how red Alfred's palms had been with blood, how red his eyes had been from – what? Drug use? Exhaustion? Grief?

"Anyway, take the rest of the week off. You've earned it. I think I've got a bottle of Martell here somewhere." The Chief turned to dig around in the cabinet behind his desk.

"Where did they take him?" asked Arthur.

"He's down in cell 11201," said the Chief, over the clinking of bottles. Arthur was impressed with the size of his brandy collection. "They're set to question him in the morning after he's calmed down."

Arthur looked away. "Sorry. I meant the shop owner."

"Oh, him. I think he's at Bellevue," said the Chief, still rooting around for the bottle of brandy. "That hospital down on first. You can check the police report, I think Beilschmidt's filling it out now."

"Thank you," said Arthur. "If you don't mind, I think I'm going to go home tonight."

"You're sure you don't want a drink before you go?" asked the Chief, locating the bottle of alcohol and placing it on the desk. "It's forty dollar brandy, Kirkland."

Arthur considered, then took the bottle from the Chief. It wasn't like he had work the next day. "Maybe just one."


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur had never spent so much time away from work before in his life. He'd never even taken a vacation day. He spent the entire week in his apartment, ordering Chinese food over the phone and watching the news. Whenever the newscaster mentioned the arrest, he switched channels to watch football and hockey on ESPN.

When he wasn't sleeping, he was pacing between the kitchen and living room, or else lying awake on his couch, replaying all his lunches with Alfred in his mind. He spent a lot of time thinking about Lovino, how he was angry and irritable but had a gruff kindness in him and how it was Alfred's fault he was in the hospital. Officers from the station kept stopping by to drop off bottles of wine as congratulations. By Friday evening, Arthur was out of alcohol and resolved to go grocery shopping over the weekend.

* * *

On the following Saturday morning, he received a call from the police station. "The kid won't talk." said the Chief. "You'd better get down here. We need somebody to interrogate him."

"Can't you send someone else?" asked Arthur, wearily. "I've on holiday. I'm finally starting to see what all the fuss is about."

"He won't talk to anybody," said the Chief, ignoring him. "As soon as we offered him the plea deal in exchange for Braginski he clammed up. Hasn't said a word except to make his one phone call. I don't think he's even got a lawyer yet."

Arthur scowled. " _Now_ he chooses to shut up. What makes you think he'll talk to me?"

"He's been doing it for the last few weeks."

"I'm sure he's not too eager to continue our conversations," said Arthur stubbornly. "Try Beilschmidt."

The Chief sighed. "We'll give it a shot. But you're due back Monday anyway, so be prepared."

Arthur said nothing, and the Chief hung up. He suddenly remembered the bottle of brandy the Chief had gifted him the previous Saturday and wondered if there was any more left.

* * *

Arthur blinked. Somebody was singing loudly off-key in the corner to an old country song. The room stunk like cigarettes and booze. For a moment he thought he was back in the Chief's office, but then he realized he was slumped over the counter of a bar he frequented sometimes. He hadn't been here in ages, not since he'd started investigating the case. He hadn't had enough free time to get trashed by himself in a while.

"I'm cutting you off," said the bartender, pulling the glass cup with a few half-melted ice cubes out of Arthur's weak, drunken grasp. "We're closing in a few minutes. It's two in the morning."

Arthur cursed. He didn't remember walking down to the pub, and he didn't have enough money left to call a taxi. He wasn't even exactly sure where the pub was in relation to his apartment.

"Where'm I supposed to go?" he asked irritably.

"Look," said the bartender, impatiently, pulling out his phone. He pulled up a map and shoved it in Arthur's face; his eyes screwed shut at the unwelcome and uncomfortably blinding light. "I told you already, the hospital's right down the street. It's got a big black iron gate with the name on it. You can't miss it."

Arthur squinting blearily at the screen for a moment, trying to register the directions. Then he shrugged, stumbled off the stool, and pushed his way out of the bar into the street.

Outside, the streets were less consistently lit than the bar, but the streetlamps were brighter, and he shielded his eyes with his hand. He could hear the ever-present honking of cars and the shouts of somebody arguing in one of the buildings nearby. Two homeless men were leaning against a nearby trashcan – no, only one, he realized, blinking his vision back into focus. The sidewalk was tilting a little bit, and he tripped over an uneven step.

Arthur meandered aimlessly down the street, looking halfheartedly for the black gates, figuring he had nothing better to do, anyway. He found them sooner than he expected and pushed his way into the lobby of the building.

"Sorry, visiting hours are over," said the secretary, without looking up from his computer.

"I'm a detective with the NYPD," said Arthur, as soberly as he could muster, pulling out his badge from his back pocket and slapping it on the counter. The secretary looked mildly surprised, but after making a quick phone call, pointed him in the direction he requested without argument.

The room was dim when he entered, but the sound of the door opening was loud enough to wake Lovino.

" _Che cazzo?_ Che cosa stai facendo qui? Non sei il mio dottore, esci dalla mia stanza _– "_

"Shut up for a moment, please. I need to talk to you about Alfred," Arthur said irritably, closing the door behind him with a _click_.

" _Chi?_ Oh, Jones. What about him?" Lovino had looked better, of course. He had several thick bandages around his torso and he couldn't sit up, but he managed to turn his head and keep eye contact as Arthur moved through the room. He was coherent enough to swear with his usual vigor, which was reassuring, at least. "There's a bathroom behind that curtain," he added, wrinkling his nose. Arthur felt his way around the walls until his fingers brushed across a doorknob; he opened it and found a cup on the sink. He filled it with water and down the whole thing in one gulp, and then refilled it; Lovino watched him in silence, clearly not pleased at having been woken up so abruptly. When he had finished the second glass of water, Arthur turned off the bathroom light and came back into the darkened hospital room, where Lovino was waiting impatiently.

"I guess I keep wondering," said Arthur, pacing back and forth, slightly off balance. He wondered how much he'd had to drink. "how you could have known it was Alfred who shot you, if you were attacked from behind." His head hurt quite a lot, and the room didn't seem to have a visitor's chair. He wondered if it would be unprofessional to sit on the floor. The tiles were swaying a little bit. He felt like he was standing on a boat.

Lovino laughed. The sound echoed a little in the empty room. "I never said it was Jones who had the gun. The police arrested him, not me."

"So you don't know?" asked Arthur. "You don't think he shot you." The realization was sudden. Lovino was no longer spitting Alfred's name like a curse. He leaned his head back further into the pillow and sighed.

"After I was shot, it was Jones who came to help me," he admitted. "The man who attacked me was trying to catch me by surprise. I don't believe Jones would have shown his face to me if he had shot the gun. Not to mention that he called the ambulance."

Arthur sank into a visitor's chair with the exhaustion of a man twice his age. "Then he didn't do it. He was telling the truth."

Lovino tried to shrug, but the action seemed to cause him pain. He winced. "I don't know. Jones has many faults, but he is not a good liar."

"He was still there, though," said Arthur, bitterly. "In the restaurant. He lied to me about that."

"And you believed him," Lovino pointed out. " _Grazie mille._ " Arthur ignored the sarcasm.

"I wanted to," he said. "I didn't want to think he was involved. I thought he was getting his life together."

" _Se confessiamo i nostri peccati, Egli è fedele e giusto da rimetterci i peccati e purificarci da ogni iniquità._ "Lovino patted his bandages. "Perhaps next time he could confess his sins a little sooner though, hmm?"

"I don't believe in confession. I believe in action."

Lovino scoffed. "Protestants."

Arthur laughed, a little too loudly. "Alfred could use some good Protestant ethics."

Lovino sighed and closed his eyes. "Are you going to babble on about religion all night, or are you going to let me go back to sleep?"

* * *

"What are _you_ doing here?" asked Alfred, bitterly. His handcuffs rattled against the cold metal table he tried leaned back in his chair, without success. He was bouncing his leg and seemed agitated, and his fingers were twitching again. Arthur wondered when his last hit had been.

"I'm here to talk to you," he said matter-of-factly. "We've never had a problem in that area before, have we?" The weekend had done nothing to loosen Alfred's tongue, and so Arthur was once again across the table from Alfred at the Chief's request, though the mood was significantly sourer. If Alfred had been careful to withhold information before, it was nothing compared to his resolution now.

"Well, go away," he said, moodily. "I didn't want to talk to that German guy, and I'm not talking to you either."

Unlike Alfred, Arthur was free to sit as far back as he wished, but he chose to lean in closer. He tried, unsuccessfully, to catch Alfred's eye. "You lied to me. You said you were going somewhere with Matthew."

Alfred gritted his teeth but said nothing. Arthur's eyes flashed.

"You're a damn child. I can't believe you threw away everything for a couple of bucks."

That got Alfred's attention. He suddenly looked angrier than Arthur had ever seen them. "A couple of bucks? Try thirty thousand dollars." He tried to stand up, but he was still handcuffed, and he was too tall to straighten up fully. He settled for resting his hands on the table and putting his face as close to Arthur's as possible. His blue eyes contrasted sharply with his orange jumpsuit. "You know how many months of rent that is? How many treatments we could have gotten for Mattie? Do you know what it's like to live with a _mob boss_?" Alfred slammed his hand down on the table and his handcuffs shook loudly. "Ivan doesn't like me and Mattie doesn't feel safe there, alright? I couldn't wait to leave. This was my ticket out. _Our_ ticket out." He threw himself back down into the chair, breathing shakily. "Now Mattie's in that house by himself and I'm stuck here."

"So take the plea deal!" said Arthur. "My God, man, what are you waiting for? You don't even like Braginski. Why are you protecting him?"

Alfred's laugh was hollow. "Well, I can't prove he was in the café anyway." He held up a finger to prove his point. "So I'm already screwed in this case. If I testify against him – " he held up a second finger – "Ivan's gonna figure it out pretty fast. And if Ivan gets arrested, Mattie's stuck in his house with no money or protection. He doesn't have anywhere to go." Alfred held up three fingers. "Three strikes, I'm out."

Arthur bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, but looked away.

"We can offer your brother protection," he said. "You don't have to do this alone."

"And then what?" Alfred, moodily. "He can't work. I don't have any money I can send him, and I definitely won't be making anything in here. He'll die." He closed his eyes. "Mattie's safe in the apartment. Ivan always liked him. Ivan will take care of him. It's the best solution."

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything.

"He's not a child, Alfred," said Arthur. "You can't make that decision for him. You think you're being noble, leaving him alone in that house?" He pushed himself out of the chair; he wasn't a tall man, but Alfred was sitting, and Arthur was tall enough to cast a shadow over him. "Stop martyring yourself. Staying stuck in prison doesn't help anybody. Being a hero means protecting the people you care about, not punishing yourself for the things you think you've done wrong."

Alfred didn't respond; his hands were shaking and his eyes were red, but Arthur couldn't tell if it was from crying or withdrawal.

"I hope you change your mind," he said, pushing the chair in and leaving Alfred alone under the blinding lights of the interrogation room, handcuffed to the table and smaller than Arthur had ever seen him.

* * *

The Rosso Pomodoro still had police caution tape around the entrance, but Arthur pushed his way under it and flashed his badge to the guard near the door, who nodded and let him enter without any trouble.

There was no trace of the bloodstains from the previous week, but a faint smell of bleach lingered, and Arthur noticed that some of the tiles looked brand-new, as though they were recent replacements.

He was surprised to see Lieutenant Beilschmidt in the back room, speaking quietly with Feliciano, who appeared to be restocking the shelves. Arthur hung back for a moment, feeling as though he was interrupting a private moment, but Feliciano turned to look at Ludwig and saw Arthur standing in the doorway behind him.

"Ciao, Arthur, what are you doing here?" he asked, smiling, though Arthur noticed he was a bit less energetic than usual. Ludwig turned quickly as well and appeared to be embarrassed, as though he had been caught in the act of something unprofessional. He quickly stepped forward to shake Arthur's hand.

"How are you, Detective?" he asked, polite and reserved, as usual.

"Well enough," said Arthur, tired. He'd stayed up late again, watching the news once more as the news cycle had moved on from the robbery. "Did you need something?" asked Ludwig.

"Er," said Arthur, not quite sure why he was back. "I thought I'd come back and have a look around."

Ludwig glanced sideways at Feliciano, who was watching the conversation with interest. "Would you mind stepping outside for a moment?" He fumbled with his hat for a second. "Police business, you know."

Feliciano looked confused, but he complied, and after a moment, the two police officers were alone in the stockroom.

"Find anything interesting?" asked Arthur, conversationally.

"Nothing incriminating," said Ludwig, putting his hat back on and leading Arthur further back into the room. "It seems the gun didn't have any fingerprints on it. The brother was here cleaning for his grandfather's arrival, apparently. His back was turned. He left the stockroom to investigate when he heard a noise, and he was shot from behind. He doesn't remember much after that, though he remembers seeing Jones."

"Saving his life?" Arthur pressed. Ludwig shrugged.

"I don't know," he admitted. "The shopkeeper's blood was definitely found on Jones' clothing, but the paramedics reported he was attempting to provide first aid when they arrived, so it's not necessarily incriminating."

"So he's innocent," said Arthur. Ludwig shook his head.

"It doesn't look good," he said honestly. "Feliciano thinks he is." His face softened. "How he can believe that, I don't know." Arthur didn't know what to say to that.

"I'm going to have a look around," he said. "Thank you for your help, Lieutenant." He nodded and pushed his way back through the door.

* * *

He saw Feliciano was sitting at one of the booths, alone for once. Arthur slid into the chair across from him. Feliciano looked relieved at his arrival.

"Any news?" he asked, urgently. Arthur shook his head. "I hear you think Alfred is innocent."

Feliciano looked pleased. "I can see that you do, as well."

Arthur shook his head. "I can't comment on the state of the case."

Feliciano grinned slyly. "That's a yes, then?" Arthur pursed his lips and looked away.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," he said, moodily. "Alfred won't cooperate with the police. He's going to go to prison."

"Well, of course," said Feliciano, matter-of-factly. "He won't leave his brother." Arthur looked surprised. "I can't blame him. If I could trade places with my brother in the hospital, I would do it in a second." He tapped his chest twice to emphasize his point.

"We've offered him protection," Arthur insisted. "I don't get why he won't take that."

Feliciano shook his head. "You think Alfred would trust his brother to some policemen? Arthur, he doesn't need the police. He needs a friend." His eyes looked troubled. "But the thought of his brother alone in the house with that man…" He looked away.

Arthur followed his gaze. They were sitting next to the booth where Alfred had been sitting – had it only been one week? The restaurant was quiet and empty, the way Arthur had used to prefer it. He had forgotten how loud the air conditioner was, how easy it was to hear the crowd outside, how the pipes rattled overhead, when it wasn't full of chattering customers.

Ludwig returned from the kitchen, straightening his hat.

"Were you ready to leave, Detective? Or did you need something else?"

"Yes, let's go," Arthur agreed, pulling himself out of the booth. "It was nice to see you again, Feliciano. Tell your brother I said hello."

Feliciano laughed. "He told me that if you visit him again in the middle of the night, he's going to crawl out of bed and shoot _you_ in the back."

Arthur grinned. "Glad to hear he's doing better."

* * *

"Are you ready to talk yet?" asked Arthur.

Alfred said nothing, but looked stony-faced into the corner of the room, concentrating on something that wasn't there. He had bags under his eyes and looked thinner than Arthur had ever seen him.

"It must be killing you to be quiet this long," Arthur commented, crossing his arms. "Have you ever given anyone the silent treatment before in your life? I'm impressed."

Alfred glared at him and looked back at the wall pointedly. Arthur leaned forward.

"Look," he said, hesitantly. "Alfred." Alfred didn't turn his head, but Arthur saw his eyes slide sideways a little bit, as though he were watching him from the corner of his eye. "If I can find Matthew a good place to stay, would you testify?"

Alfred bit his lip. "What kind of place?" He looked suspicious.

"Ah! A sentence," said Arthur, pleased to hear him speak. Alfred rolled his eyes. "Well…I'm up for a bit of a promotion in a couple of weeks. And…I've got a spare room." He looked down at his lap. "I'm sure I'll have enough income to support two people for a little while."

Alfred looked dumbfounded. He had turned his attention back to Arthur with wide eyes. "You want to let Mattie crash at your place?"

"Just until you get out," Arthur clarified. "Look, if you testify against Braginski, we can get you a lawyer and get a plea deal. If he confesses, you'll get off with aggravated robbery and burglary. With the plea deal, you'll get kicked down to a couple of months, maybe a year. He can come visit you on weekends." Alfred didn't speak. "Besides," said Arthur. "I could use some company. It's an awfully big apartment for one person."

Alfred opened his mouth, but for once, couldn't find words.

"Take the deal, Alfred," Arthur urged. "It's the right thing to do."

Arthur hesitated, then reached across the table and lightly placed his hand on Alfred's. "You don't have to do this alone." Alfred didn't respond, but Arthur heard his breathing slow and felt his fingers curl into a fist underneath his own. His hands were hot.

"Get Mattie out of there first," said Alfred in a low voice. "and I'll tell you whatever you need."

"I promise," said Arthur, solemnly. And he meant it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey! I'm not familiar with how to answer anonymous questions here, so I'll just post some quick notes:**

 _I'm a bit curious, is Alfred on drugs or does he have a mental illness that makes him twitch occasionally like you described in earlier chapters? And if he is addicted, what to? I just think it's very interesting._

Alfred definitely does more than his fair share of drugs. I wouldn't say he's physically addicted at the moment but he definitely has an emotional addiction (as he uses them for escapism/stress relief). I wrote the majority of his symptoms with cocaine use in mind (burnt fingers, needle marks, twitching, etc.) but I definitely don't have a lot of real-world experience with drug addiction, so if you picture him using a different (or even fictional) drug, it's not a hugely important plot point, so feel free to speculate.

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

Arthur checked the piece of paper that Alfred had given him at the police station. It was hardly necessary; the department already had record of Ivan's residence on file. The paper was mostly a formality; a promise. The address matched the faded numbers on the peeling paint of the door. The apartment was mostly normal looking, though old and worn and definitely tucked away in a sleazier part of town than Arthur was used to frequenting. He rang the doorbell and waited.

After a moment, he heard heavy footsteps, and the door swung inward. A huge silhouette blotted out the light in the kitchen behind it, and it took Arthur a second to recognize Ivan's face, thrown into sharp relief by the single streetlamp flickering at the base of the apartment's stairs.

"Yes?" Ivan asked. Arthur wondered whether he wore heeled boots. He was awfully tall. Arthur was out of uniform – he hadn't strictly told the Chief he was coming, as his deal with Alfred was largely informal. He'd felt it might be easier to try to convince Matthew to leave the apartment on his own, and he had decided it would be safer to arrive in plainclothes to avoid a confrontation. He missed the feeling of authority the uniform gave him, the upper hand it usually provided when dealing with criminals.

Arthur swallowed. "Does Matthew live here?"

Ivan only stared. Arthur tried again. "Blonde? Glasses? A bit sickly? I'm here to speak with him."

More silence. Arthur wondered briefly whether Ivan had even understood the request, but the next second he was blinded by the kitchen light as Ivan moved away from the doorframe. "Come in, come in. Any friend of Matthew's is welcome here."

Arthur stepped into the house cautiously; his hand slid discreetly to his waist, where he kept his Glock on its holster. He was out of uniform, but he saw no reason to show up at a known criminal's house unarmed. Ivan appeared to take no notice; he had turned his back to head up a set of stairs, beckoning Arthur to follow.

The apartment was dark and cluttered but well furnished. It was also much bigger than it looked on the outside. Arthur noticed a girl in the well-lit kitchen washing dishes; her dark, heavy dress contrasted with the brightly illuminated tiles and white walls. She glanced up as they entered, curious; Ivan nodded in her direction and she went back to scrubbing pots.

The hallway up the stairs splintered off into several different rooms, all of which had closed doors. Ivan's heavy footsteps were muffled on the carpet, and Arthur's barely made any sound at all.

"Have we met before?" asked Ivan, as they made their way through the narrow hallway. "Your face is familiar. How do you know Matthew?"

There was no point in lying here; from what Alfred had told him, Matthew rarely left the house, and Arthur was too old to pretend to have been friends with him before he was ill. "I know his brother."

"Really?" asked Ivan. He sounded amused. "I do not know Jones's friends that well. He keeps…interesting company. Perhaps I do not recognize you as easily with all of your clothes on."

"It's not like that." Arthur was falling behind slightly. His hand drifted again to his waist defensively. "I don't think we've met before."

"Hmmm." Ivan turned his head and smiled. His teeth were as white as his hair. "Perhaps you would recognize me through a cloud of smoke, then. Jones' friends do not tend to have the best memory."

Arthur was now smiling through gritted teeth. In his mind's eye he saw Alfred pulling his sleeves down to hide his arms and wondered what kind of company Ivan had seen him with in the past.

"Or maybe not. I see many people every day, who knows?" Ivan turned left and Arthur sped up to keep him in his line of sight. "What is your business with Matthew?"

"His brother has a message for him."

"What is this message?"

"It's private." Arthur almost crashed into Ivan's broad back when he stopped abruptly at the end of the hall. Ivan ignored him and opened a door, peering inside. Then he stood back. "Tell me this message. I'm sure Matthew would want me to know."

Arthur said nothing. It was a stalemate; Ivan's hand was still on the doorknob, pointedly blocking him from entering the room. Arthur locked his jaw. He could hear a TV from one of the closed rooms and the sound of rushing water from the kitchen below, but otherwise there was silence for a few seconds.

Ivan broke it. "You know, it is considered very rude to bother somebody so late at night without cause. Jones's friends have so little consideration for courtesy, it seems."

Arthur relented. He didn't want to pull out his badge and cause trouble – and truth be told, he was the slightest bit frightened of Ivan. He felt like he was confronting a bear.

"Alright," he said warily. "Alfred thinks Mattie might be better off if he moved out. He's asked me to talk to him and see what he wants."

"Matthew is very safe here, I assure you." Ivan's hand was still on the doorknob. "Had Alfred attained some new financial stability that I am unaware of?"

Arthur was speaking through his teeth now. "He knows what he's doing."

Ivan looked more amused than ever. "That's wonderful to hear. I hope he continues this habit of reliability."

"I'm not going to take Matthew anywhere he doesn't want to go," Arthur said.

"Who gave you the idea that you could?" Ivan's hand turned the doorknob behind him. "Matthew's room is through here. Speak quickly, and then leave." He stood aside. "After you."

Arthur glanced at him, but Ivan's expression was blank. He crossed the threshold and entered the room slowly. It was cluttered and dark, like the rest of the house, but almost empty. A large bed was shoved against the back wall.

"Oh, wait." Ivan spoke up suddenly from the doorway. "Now I remember who you are!" Arthur turned but something slammed him from behind and he lost his balance; he crashed to the floor. Papers scattered everywhere. He rolled onto his back quickly; Ivan's huge shadow had eclipsed the dim ceiling light from the hallway. "Arthur, wasn't it? Detective Arthur Kirkland, of the NYPD."

Arthur's blood ran cold. He tried to reach for his gun, but Ivan brought his foot down on his kneecap. He heard something crack. His left pants leg was abruptly soaked with something warm, and he realized he was drenched in his own blood. The air smelled like rust. His screams turned to gasps of pain – had he been screaming? – and he was too preoccupied to notice Ivan leaning over him to search his coat pockets. The next second, he had pulled away, holding Arthur's gun in his hand.

"You're the officer that's been hanging around the restaurant, yes?" Ivan was studying Arthur's Glock, running his fingers over the barrel. "Alfred has talked about you before." He ejected the magazine and overturned the bullets onto the floor. Arthur could hear them scattering across the wood. "He's a very stupid boy, sometimes. He could have messed everything up. But thankfully he's out of the way." He threw the gun off to the side; it hit the wall with a metallic clang and dropped onto a pile of papers.

Ivan paused; the carpet outside muffled the sound, but Arthur could distinctly hear footsteps, and the next second the young woman from the kitchen had rushed into the room. The lighting was dim, and his leg was more painful than ever, but Arthur still had enough of his wits to recognize Ivan's half-sister Natalya, from the case files, now clearly visible up close.

"What's going on?" Her eyes found Arthur, bleeding on the floor and clutching his kneecap. "Who is that?" She moved one of her hands into the light, and Arthur saw the glint of another gun.

"This is our dear Jones' friend from the restaurant. The detective." Ivan spat the last word.

"What's he doing here? Are you hurt?" Natalya put her hands on Ivan's face and inspected him; Ivan pulled back irritably.

"No, of course not. Go back downstairs."

Natalya's eyes hardened. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Natalya, please, leave us."

Ivan and Natalya began bickering with each other. She had a determined look in her eye, and Ivan almost looked like he was pleading. Arthur watched them both warily, leaning back and glancing around the room for a weapon, a bat, a stick, anything.

Ivan scowled, still watching Natalya. He pulled out a gun as well from the folds of his large coat and pointed it at Arthur, who had shifted his weight onto one of his arms and was attempted to move away from the pair. Arthur froze.

"I just want to talk to Matt," he said, wincing. "Let me talk to Matt, I don't want any trouble. Alfred just wants Matt to be safe."

Ivan's eyes narrowed. "Safe?" he asked, incredulously, stepping toward Arthur. "Safe?" Arthur gritted his teeth and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Ivan's gun was still pointed at him. "Do you think Jones has ever cared about Matthew's wellbeing? Do you think he has ever had a single thought about anyone but himself?" He was breathing heavily. Natalya was clutching her pistol tightly. Arthur was bewildered. "Alfred Jones has never cared about Matthew."

"Ivan-" said Natalya. She reached out an arm, but Ivan swatted it away.

"If only you knew him as well as you thought, Detective." He laughed in Arthur's face. "He came to me, one night. He was begging for a job. 'My brother is ill,' he told me. 'Please, let us stay here.' I am very kind, yes? I say he can live with us, I will take care of him and Matthew. All he has to do is a few simple jobs, to pay his rent."

Ivan's hand was shaking. "He does them, yes, he is a very capable worker. He has little time for Matthew. The work is too stressful, maybe. He cannot spend his spare time with his brother. He leaves the house for a long period. I wonder why he is even interested in living here, sometimes. He comes back with all kinds of people, girls, boys, friends. He never talks to Matthew anymore. He is too concerned with himself. Always concerned with his needs first." Ivan's eyes narrowed. "Matthew is getting sicker, meanwhile, but Jones cannot seem to work enough to buy his medicine, see? I tell him, do this final job for me, and you will have money. There is a small Italian restaurant, run by the grandsons of a very wealthy art collector. This art collector visits sometimes, deposits checks, brings his grandchildren expensive gifts. Why does he leave so much wealth unprotected? Why does he visit his grandchildren so often? Who knows, I say. Perhaps it is because he is Italian. Perhaps he is just stupid." He spat on the ground. "Find out when he visits, I tell Jones. He visits many times a year. Help me with this job, and your brother can be treated. Jones has enough compassion left to say yes. He protests at first, but he agrees in the end.

"He does well enough, for the first week. He brings back some information. I am very pleased, yes? But it goes downhill from there. He is distracted. I tell him, you must do better. You must help your brother. He spends more time with Matthew as time goes on, this is true. I will give him credit for this. But he argues again, he says we cannot do this, we must think of another way. I tell him there is no other way."

"You shot the grandson," said Arthur. He wasn't sure why Ivan was babbling, but it wasn't doing him any favors. Ivan was watching him too closely to allow him to look for a weapon, and he was still losing blood. It was creeping across the wooden floor and had reached the tips of his fingers. "You shot Lovino." On the other hand, as long as Ivan was talking, he had time to think, and he didn't have a bullet in his head.

Ivan shrugged. "An accident. Nobody was supposed to get hurt." He laughed. "Well, this is not true, exactly. I could shoot Jones afterward, of course. Another dead addict in an alleyway. Who would ask questions? The police would not care. Matthew would be free of him. I would be free of him."

Natalya looked rather alarmed at this statement. Arthur's head was pounding. He wondered where Matt was. Alfred had said he hadn't left the house in months. He had to be nearby.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, warily, to buy time. The apartment was large, but it was still an apartment. Matt had to be in one of the rooms. Matt had to have heard the gunshot. He wished he had told somebody other than Alfred where he was going. "What's the point?"

"The point?" Ivan cocked his pistol. Arthur's blood ran even colder, if possible. "There is no point. I do not know you, Detective Kirkland, and I do not know where you are going. But if you end up in Hell, please tell Alfred why he is there as well."

If Arthur found Alfred in Hell, he was going to kill him. If Ivan shot him at point blank range, he was dead for sure. Arthur tried to remember what came next when negotiating with a gunman. The usual rule was to make eye contact, establish a connection, converse. The key was to create hesitancy. Ivan looked very certain. Arthur's heart was beating very fast. He wasn't sure if he could stand up, but he might have no choice but to rush him on his good leg.

Ivan raised his arm. Arthur tensed his arms, prepared to push himself up. As he shifted his weight, he was expecting to hear a gunshot, but the next sound came from his right instead; a door creaked open slowly and Arthur heard a few very faint footsteps. They were muffled even more by the carpet. Ivan suddenly looked alarmed. He was still pointing the gun at Arthur, but his attention was diverted for the moment. This was it. This was his chance. If he could just-

"Ivan?" Arthur was suddenly distracted as well. Standing in the doorway, shyer and more uncertain than he had ever seen him, was Alfred.

"Ivan, what's going on?" Arthur blinked a few times. It wasn't Alfred at all, though the resemblance between him and Matthew was uncanny in the poor lighting. Matt caught Arthur's eyes. He looked extremely perturbed. "Who is this?"

Ivan was still clutching his pistol, but Arthur didn't think he could have looked more disarmed if he'd dropped it. To his relief, he lowered the gun swiftly, almost as if he were trying to hide it. He seemed lost for words. "Matthew…what are you doing out of bed?"

Matt ignored him. "Are you Alfred's friend?" he turned to ask Arthur hesitantly. "I heard your accent. You're Arthur, right?" Arthur nodded wordlessly. Matt's eyes trailed down his body and landed on the pool of blood on the floor.

His expression hardened and he looked back at Ivan. "You didn't think I couldn't hear all that screaming, did you?" He gestured wildly at Arthur's broken leg. "What did you do, Ivan?"

Ivan was almost pleading now. "Matthew, please, you don't understand, go back upstairs."

"You were going to kill him? You were going to kill Alfred? Why would you do that, what made you think I would want-"

Matt was shouting now, although his voice was shaky and still quieter than expected, like a radio with the volume turned down. Ivan was suddenly on the defensive; his gun was still in his hand, but it was almost behind his back now. Arthur was still sitting on the floor, feeling sick from the smell of his leg, reeling from Matt's unexpected entrance and trying to keep up with what was happening. Natalya was silent and seemed uncertain as well, but she was tensed behind Ivan, as if willing to defend him in the event of a fight. Arthur wasn't sure whether to intervene or not. Ivan was certainly intimidating, and he was the one holding a gun, whereas Matthew was deathly pale under the florescent lighting and wearing a very baggy sweatshirt, arms crossed, but at the moment he almost seemed to have the upper hand.

"Matthew, your brother is a liar, he has never cared about you, he has never been kind to you, he was always angry and resentful. Jones only cares about himself!" Ivan sounded urgent now.

"Stop calling him that! His name is Alfred!" Matt sounded on the verge of tears now. "And I know he hasn't been the best person lately, I know he was angry, I'm not blind! But I don't care! He's my _brother_ , Ivan, how could you?"

"He never listens to you, Matthew, how can you defend him?" Ivan stepped forward, his free arm extended towards Matt. "He finds time for these friends of his, he is always out of the house, he flirts with girls and fucks boys and never has time for you!" He grasped Matt's arm. "I did this, for you. I sit with you, I talk with you, I spend time with you. I care for you. Jones – Alfred does not care."

Matt was quiet. He was still crying, silently, though from anger or something else, Arthur couldn't tell.

"He does care," Matt whispered. "Ivan, you know he does, he's changed, he was talking about leaving, we were going to move out. He was going to take care of us again."

Ivan's mouth hardened. His voice had taken on a steady, almost persuasive tone. "That's why I had – that's why he had to leave, Matthew. He can't take care of you. Only I can take care of you."

Matt wrenched his arm free and punched Ivan. The unexpected movement knocked the gun from Ivan's grip. It skidded across the floor and landed four feet from Arthur's shoe.

Matt was a lot stronger than he looked. Or perhaps Ivan was simply too stunned to do anything. Matt tackled Ivan and punched him again; Ivan had his hands up in self-defense but made no move to counter attack. Arthur gasped in pain as he shifted his body, reaching for the pistol. It was just out of reach. If he could rotate his body he might be able to grab it.

Natalya screamed, raised her own gun, and fired.

The bullet hit something – somebody screamed – out of the corner of his eye Arthur saw Matt clutching his shoulder. He was knocked backward, off of Ivan and onto the floor. Arthur was no longer watching the scene, too desperate to reach the gun in front of him, but guessed that Matt had either passed out or worse. Matt wasn't dead, Matt was just unconscious. Alfred would kill him if Matthew was dead. Ivan would kill him if Matthew was dead.

Ivan roared and lunged at Natalya, who screamed again. She was still clutching the gun, but like her brother, she seemed reluctant to shoot her attacker. Ivan wrapped his huge hands around her throat and lifted her right off the floor. Natalya dropped the pistol and weakly clutched Ivan's fingers. Arthur couldn't tell if she was choking or laughing. The sound coming out of her was faint and faltering. They were both too preoccupied to notice Arthur, who had rotated himself all the way around, so that his shirt was soaking up the blood from his leg and his fingertips were inches from the gun.

Arthur shot wildly. He almost dropped the gun during the recoil of the first shot, but he readjusted his fingers and fired again and again. He had a large, easy target, but his vision was blurry and Ivan didn't seem to respond to the bullets at first. Arthur wasn't even sure he had hit him until the third shot. Ivan stiffened; his gigantic hands loosened and Natalya dropped to the floor, rasping and clutching her throat. Ivan swayed for a moment, like a gigantic tree trunk, and then crashed to the ground, still. Arthur couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.

Everything had happened in under a minute. The room was still and silent, except for his own breathing and Natalya's gasps. The room reeked of blood, and the wooden floor was dark and slick. Arthur didn't have a weak stomach by any means but he was definitely working to hold its contents down.

"Is he…is he dead?" he whispered. He wasn't sure if Natalya was a threat, but he held the gun ready just in case. Natalya stopped massaging her throat and looked over at Ivan's body helplessly. She had tear tracks on her cheeks.

She crawled over and put her hands on his head and neck. Arthur watched silently; after a moment, she unraveled his scarf and unbuttoned his heavy coat, pushing it out of the way. She put her hand back on his neck and rested her head against his chest.

"You killed him," she muttered. She closed her eyes and lifted her head up. Her hand moved from his neck and trailed down his torso, resting on his heart. Then it fell to the side. She sat up and casually reached for the gun she had dropped during the struggle. Arthur raised the pistol and pointed it at her. She laughed. "What are you going to do?" she asked, picking up her own weapon and inspecting it. "Shoot me?"

"Maybe," said Arthur, warily. Natalya ignored him. She checked the magazine of her pistol, scoffed, and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. "One bullet left. I'm not a very good shot, anyway." She stood up and made her way across the room, where Matt was still lying motionless in the doorway. She put a hand on hiss chest and neck, checking for a pulse. "Still alive." She sighed. "How cruel." She suddenly seemed very lost.

"Put your weapon down on the floor and step away." Arthur warned. Natalya laughed again.

"Go ahead, shoot me." She stood back up. Arthur hesitated, unsure. Natalya rolled her eyes. "Oh, I see. I must be a threatening force to justify this action, yes? Here." She retrieved her gun from her pocket and pointed it at Arthur. "See? Now I am armed. Go ahead, shoot. I am not a very good markswoman, this is true, but perhaps I will get lucky, no?"

Arthur pulled the trigger, intended to fire a warning shot. Instead, the gun clicked. He stared at it in disbelief. Natalya sighed. "Just my luck." Arthur scowled and threw the empty gun against the wall. It hit another pile of papers instead and there was a soft fluttering as they scattered onto the floor. "You have a cell phone, yes?"

Arthur had forgotten about it in the confusion. He couldn't have called for help, anyway. He winced, pulling it out of his back pocket. Natalya held out her hand and he handed it over. He didn't have much of a choice. Her gun was still pointed at him.

Still pointing the gun at Arthur, Natalya dialed 911, informed the operator that there were two gunshot victims, and a third victim with a broken leg, and hung up. Then she crossed the room, hastily threw a cushion onto the bloody floor next to Arthur in disgust, and sat down on it, playing with her pistol.

"I always liked Alfred," she said, absentmindedly. "We were not close, but he was always kind to me. We spent time together, sometimes." She glanced over at Ivan. "Not that _he_ ever knew." She laughed sadly.

Arthur wasn't sure what to say. Natalya was still speaking to the gun in her hands. He thought about trying to grab it from her, but she shifted one knee up to her chest and blocked Arthur's sight of it. He was in no position to try wrestling her for it, so he simply listened.

"Ivan had a point, though. Alfred was always very cold to Matthew, yes? I think he saw him as something he had to take care of. Ivan was the same way." She sighed again. "Matthew was never really a person to them, I think. Just a responsibility. Alfred resented him for it, and Ivan was protective of it. They could not see what he really needed."

She smiled at Arthur. "He talked about you often. I think you changed him, maybe. He was trying to be better, for himself. For Matthew. I don't think Ivan liked that. He was afraid, maybe. Of Alfred taking Matthew away. Or that it was only temporary. Maybe he did not like someone else taking care of Matthew, I do not know. My brother is a strange and withdrawn person." Arthur looked pointedly at Ivan's corpse. "Or was."

She looked down at the gun again. "I supposed Alfred and I are alike as well. We both care very deeply about our brothers, and now those brothers are dead."

"Matthew isn't dead," said Arthur. "You just said he was alive."

"Matthew is very weak, and I am not sure how much blood he has lost." Natalya shrugged. "In any case, Alfred has a life beyond his brother. I am sure he will move on. On the other hand…"

She lifted the gun and inspected the barrel at eye level. "One bullet. I am not so good a shot, but it cannot be so hard to hit an unmoving target."

"No, wait," Arthur pleaded. "I can't say you won't be arrested, but I'm sure the police would be willing to offer you some kind of deal."

Natalya's eyes settled on Ivan's corpse. Arthur persisted. "Ivan wouldn't want this," he said softly. "

She pondered this for a moment. "Well," she said, rising from the cushion on the floor. "You are wrong about one thing at least, Mr. Arthur. I have no intention of being detained. But perhaps you are right about the latter." She approached Ivan's body cautiously and knelt. Her body blocked Ivan's back, but when she rose he saw that she was holding Ivan's stained scarf. "I have seen enough blood, I think."

She wrapped the gun in the scarf and clutched it to her chest. "I think you should keep an eye on Alfred Jones." she said, stepping carefully over Ivan. "He is very enthusiastic sometimes. I think you can keep his head out of the clouds. Or at least his feet in the ground." She paused at the threshold of the room. Her eyes rested on Ivan once more; Arthur stretched out his hand. "No, wait," he protested, but the door clicked shut behind her and she was gone.

The room was nearly pitch black. Arthur could only see the shadowy outlines of the bed in the corner, and the huddled mass where he knew Matt must be. He tried to turn his head to see if he was okay, but he was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. Arthur closed his eyes instead and everything was dark and silent once more.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Mmm whatcha say

 **EDIT [February 14th]:** Deepest, deepest apologies again! The next chapter is actually the epilogue, of sorts, and when I went to post it tonight I realized how short and abrupt it was. I really want to end this story on a really good note, so I think I'm going to hold off until later this week to post it.

Check back sometime on Wednesday/Thursday, hopefully! If it's not posted by Friday, there's a good chance there might be a full week's delay in the update, because I'm going on vacation this weekend for 11 days and might not have too much time to update!


	9. Chapter 9

"So you fainted?" Alfred snorted.

"My _leg_ was broken," said Arthur, irritable. He gestured towards his bandages. "Where were you again? Sleeping in a cot? Playing poker with the other inmates?" He saw Alfred's eye drifting to the other side of the room. "Don't even think about it."

"C'mon, Arthur, Matt's not using _his_ chair. I bet I could hit twenty going down some of those hallways."

"Absolutely _not_." Arthur said, flatly. "I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight."

"Well, then, come with me! We can race. I can beat you any day of the week, old man."

"Excuse me?" Arthur asked, indignantly. "You're on bail, not free. You're going to run somebody over."

Alfred pouted, dragging Arthur's wheelchair in front of him and throwing himself into it, crossing his arms. "What's the point of being out of prison if you can't participate in the Indianapolis Wheelchair 500? I might as well have handcuffs on again."

"Just as well." said Arthur. He couldn't help but add; "I'd win, anyway."

Alfred gasped dramatically. "The second my eight months are up, I'm breaking your leg again so that we can race."

"It's not even up to me, anyway," said Arthur. "Beilschmidt is right down the hall. He's the one you should be talking to."

"It's not my fault he spends all his time visiting _Feliciano_ ," moaned Alfred, dejected. "It's so awkward to visit Lovino when that guy is giving you the death glare from the corner of the room."

"Alfred, can you shut up for ten seconds?" Matt piped up from the bed.

"Admit it, you missed my voice," teased Alfred, wheeling himself across the room towards Matt in Arthur's wheelchair, ignoring the latter's protests.

"That week you were gone was the best night's sleep I ever had," grumbled Matt, swiping at Alfred with his good arm.

Alfred laughed, and Arthur couldn't help but smile. They hadn't needed Ivan's testimony in the end, after all; Arthur's statement was more than enough evidence to get Alfred off the hook for most of the incident, and Matt's cooperation with the station had allowed the police to raid the apartment for any remaining evidence.

"He's tired, Alfred. Let's give him some space," said Arthur, limping forward on his good leg. "Let me have my chair back."

"Aw, come on," protested Alfred, but he got up good-naturedly and helped Arthur into the seat. Matt waved from the bed tiredly.

"Good seeing you, Arthur," he said cheerfully. Arthur waved back. "Sorry about all the noise."

"It's kind of nice," Matt admitted, leaning back against the hospital bed. "I should get out of the house more often."

Arthur snorted. Matt might not be as loud and abrasive as his brother, but he made up for it with his surprisingly dry humor.

"That French guy's going to be here anyway to take Matt's vitals," laughed Alfred. "We'd better get going before Arthur bursts a blood vessel."

"Yes, yes, let's get going," said Arthur impatiently, and Matt giggled as they said their goodbyes. Why that irritating doctor insisted on coming by Matthew's room so much, Arthur could only guess.

Arthur's arms still worked perfectly fine, so he insisted on wheeling himself down the hallway while Alfred walked in front. Alfred's tall stature made it easier to clear the path for the wheelchair, so it was a useful arrangement. It was better to keep an eye on him, anyway. He had a tendency to get distracted and wander away to visit the patients in the other rooms.

Beilschmidt was in Lovino's room, as usual. He and Feliciano were seated around Lovino's bed; Feliciano was animatedly telling a story about something and Lovino was avoiding Ludwig's eye.

"Alfred! And Arthur, you're back, so soon?" Feliciano heard them approaching and was out of his seat in a flash; he was full of energy despite the slightly uncomfortable tension in the room. "I was just telling Lovino about the restaurant, Ludwig has offered to come in part-time and help, isn't that amazing? He's such a wonderful man, I cannot possibly do everything by myself, and we were about to close down for a couple of months!"

"That's great, Feli," Alfred grinned. "Good for you…sir." He added hastily, throwing a mollifying glance towards Ludwig, who grunted but looked appeased. Lovino rolled his eyes and muttered something obscene under his breath.

"How's Mattie?" asked Feliciano, still excitable. "I visited him yesterday, I almost missed his room, he's so quiet!"

"He's doing great," said Alfred, beaming. "He's a tough guy, he's not supposed to be in here too much longer. I think he's scheduled to get out before I am."

Lovino started to say something but Arthur cut him off. "We were actually about to leave, Ludwig, if you don't mind." He looked pointedly at Alfred, who looked sheepish.

"Oh no, leaving so soon? You'll be back, won't you?" asked Feliciano. Ludwig went red.

"Of course, I'll only be a few blocks away." He nodded to the door, stiffly. Feliciano beamed and threw his arms around him.

"We'll, uh…be outside," said Alfred giggling. Lovino looked alarmed and waved his hands frantically as Alfred wheeled Arthur out of the room as quickly as possible.

They were both laughing as they turned the corner; Arthur stayed seated in his chair as Alfred procured a bench to sit on. He leaned against the gleaming hospital walls blissfully; Arthur had never seen him look so relaxed. For once, he didn't seem to be trying to cover up a twitch or a nervous glance. Alfred turned his head and noticed Arthur looking at him.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said, suddenly. He glanced down the hall, and then rooted around in his coat pockets. Arthur watched this fruitless task curiously.

"I see you got your bomber jacket cleaned," he said, conversationally. Alfred looked up.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." He smiled. "You wouldn't believe what soap and cold water can do."

"Your domestic skills continue to astonish me," said Arthur. Alfred laughed again. "Here it is!"

Arthur held out his hand and received a bulging, ratty envelope. "Good lord, Alfred, don't you ever send letters? How long have you had this?"

"You're such an old man," whined Alfred. "I know how to send a letter. It's for you. That's why there's no stamp, see?"

Arthur tore open the letter carefully, lest it spill its contents all over his lap. Inside was a check and a ridiculous number of receipts, bundled clumsily by rubber band.

"What's this supposed to be?" asked Arthur, thumbing through the receipts curiously.

"I didn't get a chance to tell you while I was…you know," said Alfred, ruefully. "But…I went to that job interview. Before everything happened."

Arthur looked at the check and did a double-take.

"That's quite a bit of money. They paid you all that just to sit through a training video?"

"They've been really nice, actually. I spoke to one of Matt's nurses here and she got me in touch with one of the directors over there. They said they'd be willing to give me another chance after I get out. It's just an internship, but it's paid, so that's something, right?"

Alfred looked down at his feet. "Anyway, that's for all the stuff you bought me. The lunches, I mean."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, impressed. "You've even put in for the drinks." He handed the check back to Alfred. "Take it. I got the promotion at the station, I don't need money right now." He smiled. "I'm proud of you, Alfred."

Alfred blushed, but took the check back. He rested his hands on Arthur's again for a moment, then shoved the money back into his coat pocket and leaned his head on Arthur's wheelchair. After a moment, he closed his eyes, and his breathing grew deep and slow. Arthur wasn't sure if he was asleep, but he was certainly quiet. He wasn't even bouncing his leg.

For once, he realized, Alfred Jones was completely still.


End file.
